The Other Side Of Love - Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2-C.B.R.I Days: Friends, Fun, and Her First Glimpse

A New World at CBRI

In 1987, when I was 11 years old, my life changed in ways I couldn’t have imagined. We moved from Civil Lines to the Scientist Apartments in C.B.R.I, a perfect square of 64 houses, no more than 80–90 meters across, nestled in the heart of Roorkee. For a kid who’d been an only child for 11 years, this was a dream come true—suddenly, I had a whole colony of kids to play with, boys and girls who became my world. C.B.R.I was a happening place, a high-profile government organization with every facility a child could dream of: huge playgrounds, tennis courts, badminton courts, volleyball courts, and a community center with indoor games like table tennis, carrom, and cards. The main C.B.R.I building even had an auditorium where they’d show movies and documentaries—a big deal in a small town like Roorkee back then, when cinema was a rare treat.

The Scientist Apartments were a hub of cultural activity, buzzing with events that brought the community together. There were carnivals—or “FATE,” as we called them—kitty parties, potluck dinners, flower shows, exhibitions, and stage performances. Festivals were celebrated with unmatched zeal, drawing people from all over Roorkee to witness the spectacle. Diwali, in particular, was on another level, a celebration so grand I’d argue it was the best in the entire district, if not all of Uttar Pradesh. The passion, the enthusiasm—it was the epitome of what a festival should be. Janmashtami, Christmas, Lohri—all these celebrations played a role in my life, especially in the love story that would unfold in the years to come.

That same year, 1987, my brother was born, an 11-year gap that surprised everyone. I’d always wanted a sister, but I was just as thrilled to have a brother, born at Holy Family Hospital in New Delhi, delivered by the same doctor who brought me into the world. Years later, my father shared a secret that deepened my sense of destiny: I wasn’t their first child. My mother had a miscarriage before me, and against all odds, she conceived again, bringing me into existence. Four years later, in 1980, the girl who would become my soulmate—Pooja—was born. I can’t help but worship the day she came into this world, a soul who would define my existence, give my life meaning, and become the reason I survive. It’s as if God had a plan, ensuring our souls would meet.

Moving to C.B.R.I was the best thing my parents—or God—ever did for me. Not just because of the friends I made, but because it brought me to Pooja, the girl who would redefine my life, give me a rebirth, and change the very genes of who I am. She became the pinnacle of love for me, a presence I couldn’t have dreamed of in my wildest imagination. But before I get to her, let me paint a picture of who I was back then, because understanding me is key to understanding our story.

As a teenager, I was the most frolic person you could meet—or at least, that’s how I saw myself. Flamboyant, insouciant, a happy-go-lucky guy who lived to laugh and make others laugh. I had a radiant personality, always wanting to be part of everything, everywhere. I wasn’t an attention seeker—though I did enjoy it—but I hated being left out. Secrecy, groupism—I despised them. I was too innocent to even notice ulterior motives in conversations or discussions. All I cared about was having fun, playing, enjoying the moment, and living for today, screw tomorrow. That’s who I was, and in many ways, I’m still that person 27 years later, though it’s worked both for and against me. Some say it’s good to keep the kid in you alive, but in this country, once you cross 30, you’re expected to be serious, to live for family and society, not yourself. I’ve always been against that—I believe life should be lived for yourself too, a belief that’s made me feel like I wasn’t born for this society’s norms, even though I love my country deeply.

That carefree attitude defined my teenage years, but after 2003, I sometimes feel destiny looked at me and said, “Beta, you overused your share of happiness. You were supposed to balance it throughout your life, but you consumed your quota by 2003. No more happiness left for you now.” It sounds dramatic, but I haven’t laughed wholeheartedly since then, except maybe with Pooja. Instead, I’ve been labeled eccentric, unpredictable, short-tempered, selfish, and self-centered—labels I dispute. Yes, I can be short-tempered, but there are reasons a frolic, life-loving person turned depressive and anxious, reasons I hope to explain by the end of this story. I believe I might be the most misunderstood person in the history of misunderstood people, a conviction that’s stayed with me through the years. For me, life isn’t life unless it’s shared and laughed out with friends, and later, with someone special—a belief so deep-rooted that when I couldn’t have it, I couldn’t live to my full potential.

I’m emotional, sensitive, and I struggle to let things go. In Vedic astrology, I’m a Scorpio sun, though a Libra by Western standards, and I hold onto disrespect or attacks on my pride for years, even a lifetime. It’s caused me a lot of suffering, burning with anger and insult because I’m not the type to act on it—I just feel it deeply. I’m also a victim of super guilt, my decisions driven by my conscience, except when it came to Pooja. With her, love overrode everything, even rationality, leading to guilt and regret, but I could always justify it with “I am in love.” As they say, all’s fair in love and war, and I was blindly, intensely in love with her, an energy only Linda Goodman could capture in her book *Love Signs*. She wrote, “Love is concentrated kinetic energy, the most awesome force in Nature… If only you could love deeply enough and sustain love long enough, you could become the source of your own miracles.” That’s exactly how I felt about Pooja—a love so powerful it could change anything.

Beyond my personality, I was consumed by two passions: technology and music. At 13–14, I was building electronic projects, inspired by *Electronics for You* magazine. My mother, always my biggest supporter, bought me a special edition with DIY projects, one of the best gifts I ever got. I built an MW radio, a 4-tone siren, dancing lights—you name it. But my father wasn’t supportive. He believed practical knowledge wouldn’t lead to a career, a view I understand given the Indian context, where you needed high marks or entrance exams to get into college. I wasn’t that student—I didn’t get the marks or pass the exams, but I had a remarkable aptitude for technicalities, something I inherited from my father, an electrical and mechanical genius. I became an electronics and computer wizard, a passion that would later shape my life in ways I didn’t expect.

Music was my other love, and I don’t mean the casual kind—I infused music into my soul on another level. I started with Western music, hating Hindi music at first. My first album was George Michael’s *Faith*, followed by the Bangles’ *Walk Like an Egyptian* and Tracy Chapman’s *Fast Car*, my favorite. My mother bought my first album—my father never supported these “extra activities,” focused only on my studies. We didn’t even have a stereo player at first, just a mono tape recorder by Sanyo. I’d go to my friend Manish’s house—he later became my best friend—to listen on his National Panasonic stereo, the only one in the colony with a VCR too, a Samsung that made me laugh when I first heard the name.

Ironically, I later fell in love with Indian music, especially Jagjit Singh’s ghazals, thanks to my father. He and Jagjit were fast friends in college in Jamshedpur, and I still have the letters Jagjit wrote to him when he moved to Bombay to try his luck in the music industry. My father introduced me to Jagjit’s music one evening when I was lying on the sofa in our C.B.R.I house, upset with Pooja for reasons I can’t recall. He played “Baat niklegi to door tak jaayegi” on our Onida stereo—we got it in the late ‘90s, when I finally understood what “stereo” meant. That ghazal blew me away, awakening a love for Indian music I didn’t know I had. It was Pooja who gave me the emotional depth to appreciate it, and we later discovered our shared love for Jagjit Singh, listening to his ghazals together. Her house at E58 was in a diagonal line of sight from my window at E10, so she could hear what I played, a connection that deepened our bond.

My earliest memory of Pooja goes back to when I was 16 and she was 12, during Durga Puja at the Roorkee University temple. The 4-year age gap felt significant then—she even called me “Bhaiya,” a cliché that makes me laugh now, knowing that “Bhaiya” turned into her boyfriend. I didn’t have any romantic feelings for her then; she was just a kid to me. Our parents—hers or mine, I don’t recall—asked her to sit with me for protection since I had a front-row seat to the celebrations. That faint memory of her sitting near me is the first glimpse I have of her, a moment that felt insignificant then but became the starting point of everything.

C.B.R.I gave me friends who shared my wavelength, my sense of humor, a rare and precious thing. We were all within a 3–4-year age range, and the fun we had was unmatched—stories so weird, funny, serious, and uncanny that even Pooja might not know them all. I hope when she reads this book, she’ll relive those moments with me. But it wasn’t until I was 17 and she was 13 that we started talking more, feeling that tingling sensation of first love, a story that begins in the next chapter. She was different—mature beyond her years, serene, infused with romance, the definition of cuteness and sweetness. Her beauty, her intellect, her blush—nothing could compare. When she blushed, she bloomed like a rose, as if God Himself had created that smile for me. She was perfect, my supreme being, and I was about to fall in love with her in ways I never thought possible. She’d change my entire perspective, even making me—a boy who never feared death—fear it for the first time, a shift I’ll explore in the chapters to come.