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  • Kanika Bhatia

CLOSURE.

I have been diluting my anger towards an Instagram profile, which refuses to revert to my couple of pleading messages to just read through my work for expert feedback. The lady tweeted (and reposted that tweet on Instagram, because duh) on how she has an inbox full of such requests and it’s time people start appreciating the work that goes into feedback and it’s not a charitable service. Funnily, the tweet sounded like years of feminism shouting one sided love doesn’t mean she owes you a reciprocation. I heard her. Closure. 


I was in a year long relationship, but the break up extended for three. Unfinished romances resemble a half read book or an incomplete series. The climax is romanticised, and the plot is reimagined. What ifs envelope your life, and daydreams masquerade as hopeful strategies of either side handling it better. The same conversations over and over again, hoping for an epiphany where at least one hurt party goes eureka by the end of it, is my idea of therapy. It’s draining, but only on vocals. Maybe, just maybe hoping for a different result isn’t a sign of insanity in this case. Three years later, he is a call away and friend-ish. He knows why he did what he did, and I unearthed how it doesn’t hurt as much it used to. Closure. 


Covid can be credited for musings. Friendships are under scrutiny because when the pleasure of company isn’t possible, what’s really holding you together right? I lost a close friend. For a while I have been entertaining the idea of rough patches projected on those closest to you. But maybe trouble has been brewing since long. Maybe the bridge could hold it for just this long. Maybe when things run their course you should let them. Maybe it was essential to say those things to each other. Maybe voids are just empty seats for better takers. Closure.


I was seven or eight. In my first year of being a 30s something woman, I finally learnt how wikipedia terms fingering as rape. Up until now, I have called it as casual molestation which is so common in this country. A young girl enlightened me on this last night. For nearly quarter of a century I have brushed it as a bruise healed, and only put it on display for creating content or expressing solidarity to a community against hateful crime. I address it when I have to take a deep breath each time I read about rape and brutality cases in the newspaper. Everyday. From last night to now, I have managed to process the change in terminology, but also the fact I can do nothing about it.  I was seeking milestone closure for the bad doctor who decided to touch me when and where he shouldn’t have. Funnily, I put myself in his shoes and try to debate the logic of his actions. That’s how trauma works in my case. It will feed off my perpetrators guilt. He is the accidental victim. No matter the label, it scarred me to an extent, makes me cringe maybe till I live, and helps me solidify my connection with hundreds out there. Beyond that, I have stopped hunting for answers. Closure. 


Because I admittedly think too much, I have often wondered what our parents termed closure. It seems like another product of the Y2K generation for some reason. Or because that’s when I started seeking it, and gallons of poetry started churning out on the subject. Finite is what we know. The lack of endings has baffled humans. Possibly that’s why open ended movies are called artsy for some reason. And real life is anything but. It’s messy, chaotic, unfair, it’s notionally romantic, but art? What did our parents call it when their love story felt incomplete, or a fall out happened with no explanation whatsoever. What did they seek? Or like a heightened idea of self preservation, closure is another byproduct of fragile minds of fragile generations that followed. 


A lot of things give us the illusion of that mammoth sigh we will heave. Very few of those begin with closing doors. When time is abundant, the themes are more micro for some odd reason. It’s when the world is closing in on you, you further narrow it down to YOU. Your trauma, your inconsequential self worth overweighing the tasks aligned for a day. The myth of our purpose seems to be to solve that mystery. Everything is read and seen in rhetoric. Suddenly the therapy we should be paying for seems like a waste because I am capable of Freud-ing the shit out of myself anyway. (Side note: shouldn’t freuding be more than bad English). But somehow they convince you, that closure holds all the answers. That it’s more than just something hustle culture hates upon. It won’t make you lazy or incompetent as you blame the lack of closure for your non success. It’s not just what shrinks should place on their clinic walls instead of certificates. It’s more than just you becoming your own sounding board. 

Closure is when you make peace with facts. You will not call your dad directly (oddity of relationship) but ask about him everyday. Your heart rips out if he is worried, but somehow text also seems like an intrusion in his privacy. It doesn’t bother you anymore. That friend you just dropped? It can be that she did it before you did. But she was naive and angry, and you, you have really thought this through. Convenient closure. Will I invite her when I decide to get married? I don’t know. Will she come? I hope so. Closure is the ability to say it out aloud. I loved him enough that breaking down before him was nothing short of John Keats marrying Jane Austen. Tears made it eternal. I will never love the same, but then should I really? Once in a lifetime kind of love, should be just that. Once. It’s our ability, his and mine, to be able to shame, talk and change roles, all in one conversation. I can say exactly how much I loved, and how much he hurt. Closure is self discovery. Many nights I thought about what I would do to the man who attacked my self worth. Kill, hit, detest or let go? Closure is knowing that no one has a penny on that self worth. 



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