Fine.
I don’t hate small talk.
I hate when small talk is a mask.
When it pretends to care but doesn’t.
I hate talk that feels like it’s holding its breath.
The kind that asks “How are you?”
and hopes I say “Fine,”
so we can both move on,
untouched and unchanged.
If you’re just being polite,
don’t.
I’d rather sit in silence with someone real
than swim in shallows with someone pretending.
Don’t ask me how I am
unless you’re ready to know.
Because I won’t give you the version
that fits into a smile and a nod.
I’ve spoken for hours
about how water tastes different
in every city I’ve lived.
How Vellore water feels dusty,
Ahmedabad tastes like the pipes it travels through.
Mehsana?
A little salty, like it’s keeping secrets from the earth,
whispering them through every sip.
And Seattle?
Soft. Almost apologetic.
Like rain that forgot it had somewhere to be.
And Ayush,
he listened, really listened,
while I explained how
I drink ice-cold water
in places where the taste feels wrong,
so cold it numbs the tongue,
and I don’t have to lie to my own mouth.
Let’s talk about dreams.
The ones you remember,
and the ones you don’t dare say aloud.
Tell me what book broke something open in you.
What song made you feel seen.
What food tastes like love,
or like home,
or like something you wish you could forget.
Let’s talk about the places you’ve never been
but miss anyway.
How your brother’s eyes light up
when he talks about space.
How your mom still tears up
when she hears her wedding song.
The kind of details
that don’t make it into group chats or status updates.
Anu once pulled me into a rabbit hole,
why orange the fruit
and orange the color
share the same name.
And how apple and red never bothered.
Why?
Who decides these things?
And why don’t we question them more?
Isn’t that strange? Isn’t that delightful?
We were told as kids
that nothing rhymes with orange.
But then Eminem,
wild genius that he is,
said:
“I put my orange, four-inch door hinge in storage
and ate porridge with George.”
Like rhyme was a game of contortion,
and he refused to lose.
I’ll tell you how in India,
my favorite oranges were still a little green,
tangy, sun-kissed, and defiant.
And how here,
mandarins try their best,
perfectly orange,
but somehow less alive.
And how I didn’t eat mandarins for a year
because they just looked too orange.
Still, sometimes,
if I close my eyes,
they taste like home trying.
I love trivial things,
as long as they are curious things.
Joyful things.
Real things.
Talk to me about math,
about why prime numbers feel lonely.
Talk to me about war,
and the heavy silences between explosions.
About history,
the kind they forgot to teach us.
About psychology,
why we cling to patterns that hurt us.
About philosophy,
the kind that keeps you up
at 2:17 a.m.
Ask me how I’m doing,
but only if you actually want to know.
Because I’ll tell you.
I’ll tell you in metaphors.
I’ll tell you in a little too much detail.
I’ll say weird when I mean lost,
and tired when I mean trying.
So don’t ask unless you’re ready.
And don’t expect me to lie
to make you comfortable.
I don’t want weather reports.
I want weather feelings.
Thunderstorm confessions.
Sun-drenched silences.
The kind of talk that makes time irrelevant.
I don’t do well with surface.
I crave marrow.
Meaning.
Mischief.
Magic.
Don’t be polite to me.
Be curious.
Be chaotic.
Be soft, sincere, a little unfiltered.
Be kind, yes,
but let it be the kind that’s real,
not the kind that wears a mask.
We don’t have to agree.
We just have to care.
Really care.
Come as you are.
I’ll meet you there,
with questions,
with stories,
with a glass of weird-tasting water,
just slightly too cold.
