A is for Apathy, A begins Anger

I’ve written and rewritten these words in my head. I’ve crossed them out in deep black ink, pressed hard enough to make crafts out of lined paper. I’ve threaded it with sentiments and anger and anguish and sadness, and I’ve undone it, unhooked it, untangled every alphabet. And stared. Even then, I don’t think I’ve felt a word stronger than this one before. I’ve never before been this appalled at a single word’s passive curves- apathy.

While I understand that its antonym- empathy- is by no means easy to come by and can hardly be said to be handed out at street corners, I believe in a middle ground. In between the Pope during the Holocaust and Mother Teresa. And hey, my dear university, you bear a strange resemblance to that particular papacy.

It’s odd how things turned out.

I saw this girl last a few years ago, at a random family friend’s wedding. I guess we used to be friends but, I don’t remember much other than a fear that my feet would make a mess on the white carpet that lay over her childhood home’s stairs. I was surprised to see her message, just the day after. Of course, I knew she’d know– mallu mallu connexion, you know? But, I was surprised she cared. It was just nice knowing that.

And if you need anything, do call.
As if! My first reaction was surely of a cynic. You probably wouldn’t be able to give me what I need but, it’s nice to have an option, no?

Then those kids in high school. When did I last talk to them? Senior picnic maybe. Graduation maybe. Summer, simply to discuss college plans, maybe. I was in such a hurry to leave that I scarce tried to hold on. I made the effort at times. And I guess, now, I’m glad I did. Because they were there. And they responded without me asking them to. I’m not even talking about my friends but my classmates. They sent out awkwardly-worded short messages full of doubt and fear and spelling mistakes. And for some reason, they helped.

And this gorgeous campus of mine. hah.

Oh, the irony. I have sat at awe at the brilliance of my some of my newer classmates but the respect I once had has melted down to a kind of disgust. I should have known.

I should have known, dear university, of that puff with which your inhabitants would complain to me about their schedules and workloads and annoying phone calls from parents and bank statements and dinner plans and weather problems and exams and deadlines and things that have no relevance on a reality scale.
I should have known that because they did not know what to say, they’d say nothing instead. Because they didn’t know how to make it better, they’d exclude and thereby, make it worse. Because they were too uncomfortable, they wouldn’t share the news. Because they didn’t know how to deal, they’d ignore the need for dealing.
I should have known that I’d come back to a world where not a single person would say a single word. Be it a word of comfort, of understanding or even a ‘hey, how are you doing?’
I should have known that I’d feel like I had to force even the closest of friends to talk to me. I had to beg for their empathy when I simply wanted understanding, or at least, common sense.

Yes, I think I’d be comfortable with common sense. Hell, I don’t even ask for friendship- just basic human decency.

And don’t you dare tell me that you didn’t speak to me when you should have because you didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t told what to say, what to do, how to do what or what to do when. And you’re not going to be told either. You either do something because you care or don’t because you don’t. There isn’t a difference in desire if that desire is not transformed into action.

And yes, it’s too late now. It’s too late to leave flowers on my desk and impersonal cards offering to be there. No, it’s too late to be there. It’s too late to ask, to inquire, to comfort, to care. So don’t you dare tell me you made an effort.

Dear university, I’d do anything to leave. Because I’d prefer hatred over nothing. Anything but this apathy I see in these sparkling eyes reaching out of my camera’s hands.

This city that used to be my mistress, who made me love the cold air that embraced me on autumn nights and glistening rivers that kept me company on sunny days, feels sickeningly dead. I no longer long for its cries or look forward to the bends at its corners. I neither hear it nor want to. I haven’t taken a single portrait, admiring the depth of its porous skin, in what feels like ages.

This city of my childhood, of a long long series of firsts, is witness to yet another first. And this time, I never want to return.

Too bad it’s too late to consider a transfer.
Even if it wasn’t, where to? I have a feeling it would have been the same anywhere. But for now, it’s nice to point fingers. Not you, my friend; it’s only this place that corrupted you. Has a good ring! And makes smiling and being pretend-friends somehow more bearable.

B.

 

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