P. Connected

"What do you want to hear?" she asked, catching me mid-ramble.

I stopped short, suddenly aware I'd been word-vomiting my thoughts without any real direction. Shraddha appeared with a water bottle like some hydration fairy godmother.

"Here, drink this and take a breath! Now spill, what's actually going on in that head of yours?"

"That's the thing," I sighed, taking a sip. "I can't make sense of anything in my life. I'm literally confused about why I'm even confused."

She settled beside me, her voice softening. "You know, my life's pretty simple. Dad taught me painting when I was little. I used to draw those silly little houses that looked like huts, and Dad would call my paintings masterpieces. Once, I drew Dad himself, but I made one eye tiny and the other one huge. He said, 'This is the best drawing ever. Look how handsome I look!' and made me laugh. Then Mom came in and scolded him, saying, 'Why are you making the kids do such useless things? Teach them to study instead. You couldn't achieve anything yourself...'

Anyway, let's leave that story aside. After she left, Dad would always mimic her scolding and make me laugh again. He was the happiest person I've ever known. He's gone now, but..." She traced invisible patterns on her knee. "Those memories stick around. Painting's the only thing here that's ever really clicked for me. Maybe that could be your way too, Divya. Want to try?"

"Me? Paint? I'm basically the anti-artist. If there was an award for worst painter ever, I'd probably mess that up too."

Shraddha burst out laughing. Hearing her laugh felt so good for some reason, but when she drifted back into her sad memories because of me, it didn't feel right.

"Oh please, you're beyond terrible! But I swear I've never seen anyone light up about painting the way you do."

"Are you complimenting me or roasting me?" I tried to smile, but something heavy lurked beneath the surface, refusing to budge.

Kailash's voice cut through our moment: "Hey, secret society! Care to join the rest of us for food?"

As we stood up, Shraddha nudged me. "So... thoughts about him?"

"He's nice."

"Nice enough to like?"

"Maybe. You should consider Vishwas – I mean, trust is literally his name!" I smiled.

"That joke was so bad it circled back to almost being good. Almost. Keep practicing, though!"

We joined the others, and Shraddha immediately played interviewer: "Origin story time – how did you two become friends?"

Vishwas grinned. "Revolutionary tale  I sat next to him because there was an empty seat."

The simplicity of it cracked everyone up. I turned to Kailash: "Come on, give us some dirt. What wild adventures are you hiding?"

"He was the shyest thing ever," Vishwas jumped in. "Wouldn't talk to anyone but me. Though we did have some epic moments." Kailash's shy smile confirmed his introvert status.

The conversation pingponged around until Kailash asked Shraddha about past crushes.

"Nope, no guys."

"Girls then?" Vishwas wiggled his eyebrows.

Shraddha laughed so hard she nearly fell over. "No! I was too busy being a art nerd and avoiding human contact."

When she turned the question on me, my mind froze. How do you summarize a childhood that feels like a dark canvas? So I did what any awkward person would do – dropped random art facts: "Did you know Leonardo da Vinci had such bad focus issues he left tons of paintings unfinished?"

Shraddha's eyes lit up like I'd just offered her free art supplies. "Yes! Artists have creative ADHD, I swear! And Van Gogh? Only sold ONE painting his whole life – 'The Red Vineyard' – out of over 2,100 pieces!"

Poor Vishwas looked like we were speaking alien.

"Yaar, pass me the chips," Vishwas stretched from the back seat, already in full poetry mode. "Been reading Jaun Elia all week. My brain's basically turning into a shayari factory."

Kailash handed him the chips, careful to avoid brushing fingers. "Since when did you become such a literature buff?" he teased, though his heart did that familiar flip when Vishwas grinned.

"Oh please! Remember school? I was the one who introduced you to Jaun Elia's poetry!"

"Only because you were trying to impress that literature teacher," Kailash laughed, then glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Though these days you seem more... inspired."

Vishwas sighed dramatically, eyes fixed on me. "Speaking of Jaun Elia here's one that hits different now:

Rok Dena Janaza Mera Jab Uska Ghar Aaye,

Kahi Woh Khidki Se Jhanke Aur,

Mera Dil Dhadak Jaye

(Stop my funeral when it reaches his house,

So that he might look out of the window,

And my heart may start beating again.)

Kailash felt his chest tighten. If only Vishwas knew how many times he'd whispered those same lines thinking about him. Instead, he said casually, "Not bad! But listen to this one

Log kehte hain doosri mohabbat kar lo,

Kaun samjhaaye ki pehli bhi kisi se nahi hui!

(They say, fall in love again,

Who will explain that the first one never happened with anyone!)

"Deep stuff, !" Vishwas munched on chips. "Though you're saying it like you're reciting a shopping list!" He had no idea how Kailash's hands were shaking.

"Some things are easier to say when you pretend they don't matter," Kailash muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing! Hey, want to hear something really good?

Tum aana mere janaze par ,

ek aakhri haseen mulaqat hogi,

mere jism me be shak jaan na ho,

par meri jaan mere paas hogi

(Come to my funeral, there will be one final, beautiful meeting.

Though my body may be lifeless, my life (lover) will be with me.)

Vishwas whistled. "Damn, when did you get so romantic? Got someone special you're not telling me about?"

Kailash nearly choked on air. "Just... appreciating good poetry."

"Right," Vishwas smirked, then suddenly sat up. "Oh! This one's perfect for how I've been feeling lately." His eyes darted to me:

"Sochu to saari umar mohabbat mein kat gayi,

Ek hi shakhs mera nahi hua."

I finally looked up. "What does that even mean?"

"It means there are other sorrows in life besides love," Kailash explained softly, "The thought that my whole life was spent in love, Yet only one person never became mine." Though god knows, he thought, he hadn't found them yet.

"You guys are such drama queens," I rolled my eyes.

"Hey!" Vishwas protested. "We're sensitive souls! Right, Kailash?"

"Some more than others," Kailash murmured, then quickly added, "Want to hear about Kumar Sanu's recording record? Way more interesting than our poetry session."

"Dude, you and your random music facts!" Vishwas threw a chip at him. "But go on."

Kailash launched into the story, grateful for the distraction. Behind him, Vishwas was not stealing glances at me. He was so invloved.

"Remember that time in school when you tried to write a love letter in shayari?" Vishwas suddenly laughed.

"And you tried to help but spelled everything wrong?" Kailash shot back, grateful for the memories that didn't hurt.

"Those were the days, yaar."

"Yeah," Kailash agreed quietly. "Those were the days." Days before love complicated everything, when friendship was enough. He caught Vishwas's eye in the mirror and quickly looked away. Some things were better left unsaid, even if they lived in every line of poetry he'd ever loved.

The conversation evolved into a poetry slam between Vishwas and Kailash, throwing verses back and forth like artistic tennis, until Shraddha suddenly switched gears:

"Favorite color?"

"Um... sky blue?" I ventured.

"Dark brown," she shot back.

"Like... dirt?"

"Exactly!" Her enthusiasm for soil color made me ridiculously happy.

Then came the big guns: "What draws you to 'The Starry Night'?"

I felt my soul light up. "It's this beautiful contradiction – this vast, lonely sky looming over a sleeping village. Van Gogh captured isolation so perfectly, you know? That swirling sky feels like emotional chaos, like trying to find your place in a world that doesn't quite get you."

"The eternal artist's loneliness?"

"Yeah! And those stars... they're like those rare moments of clarity that shine through all the mess. When you connect with someone about something you love, it feels like those stars – this pure, perfect moment where you wish time would just... stop."

I caught myself grinning like an idiot and quickly tried to school my face into something more serious when she asked, "Why the sudden quiet? And what's with that smile?"

My brain short-circuited the second our eyes locked. Her gaze was intense, like it was holding me hostage, and I was just sitting there, grinning like a complete fool without a clue why. The tension was killing me, so I awkwardly looked away and blurted out the classic go-to line everyone uses when they're too flustered to think straight.

"Nothing," I growled, attempting to look angry while fighting back a grin that threatened to expose every feeling I was trying to hide. Because if she knew, if she saw how much this conversation meant to me. she'd never let me live it down.

The way she looked at me, confused by my dramatic mood swing, only made it harder not to smile. There I was, basically having an internal war between my face muscles and my dignity, all while pretending to be annoyed. Peak smooth, really.