Apurva sat across from his history professor, who was also a ‘part-time psychologist’—whatever that meant. Almost every day, they discussed life and its ridiculousness. Today’s agenda was ‘longing’. Apurva had carried with him a great burden of longing and wanted to spill it all in front of his professor. “I saw your baby picture on Facebook yesterday. You looked like a happy child. What happened, Apurva?” asked the professor. Who starts a conversation like that?

The student gathered himself and looked towards the fading light from the dying sun. The classroom was empty, unlike his soul. Last night, at 2:35 am, Apurva, unable to find the vigour to send out his assignment, wrote an email to the professor:

Dear Professor Rajan,

I am unable to complete my report on Franz Jägerstätter, an Austrian man who apparently did some cool stunt back in 1943. The reason is I carry a tremendous longing (Sehnsucht) for unexplainable things. I cannot bring myself to do anything. So please excuse my inconvenience (I’m trying to say the last word in a French accent).

Yours,

Apurva

“That email is concerning. Are you well?”

“I am,” he replied.

“Were you drunk, or is this some stunt?—an excuse to get out of punishment?”

“I really wanted to work on it,” said Apurva.
“Really? Because you wrote ‘cool stunt’, which is very vague and something someone would say out of carrying superficial knowledge,” Apurva smiled and looked outside the window. His peers were leaving the campus area. They look so happy. I hope they slip on the wet cement and…

“Apurva!” the professor said. “You are zoning out. Why do you lack motivation, friend? Talk to me. I volunteer at a mental health organisation. I know a thing or two about what your generation endures. Tell me.”

“Let’s talk about that by the way. What does being a ‘part-time psychologist’ mean?” Apurva asked.

“It means I have many interests,”
“I think it means you carry a superficial life,”

“Does mocking your professor, by the way, the only professor who tolerates you, give you joy?”

Apurva didn’t respond. He hated confrontation—he loathed debates. He wanted to pinch himself so bad whenever someone tried to converse about non-significant things. His classmates talked about Sydney Sweeney being single again and Durgesh Thapa’s acoustic singing—things Apurva thought were just noise. He believed in the magic of being and wanted to endlessly converse about the universe that accommodates mysteries we can’t unravel. But no, his friends wanted to talk about ‘hot bhayera, pot bhayera’.

He also wanted to talk about the turbulence his heart faced. Just like how turbulence never crashed a plane, it could not kill a heart. Yet in that moment of violent shake, the world that you know, the comfort that you crave feels distant.

“It’s okay if you do not want to open up. We can talk about regular things like we always do,” said the professor, noticing his pupil’s stiffness.

Apurva sat straight—his arms resting on the desk. “I am mad at everything,” he said. “I hate carrying memories of people no longer in my life. I feel paralysed. I cannot move freely knowing the depths of another soul I am no longer in harmony with. I long for their presence sometimes.” Maybe I long for that familiarity in this age of chaos and uncertainty.

The professor took a sip of his Americano and made a ‘face’ because he clearly said “no sugar”.

“Are you sure you are mad at ‘longing’ and not at something else? Maybe your aching is being reflected on this one thing. Perhaps your pain comes from somewhere else?”

“Wow. How much do they pay you for that part-time stint?” Apurva asked with a smile. But that made him ponder. He was always the self-doubter. Is the old man right? Do I carry multiple pains? Do I give birth to my own problems? Is the movie my friend recommended any good? Why does samosa have so many nuts inside? Is anything real? Are we in a simulation? Am I…?

“Stop zoning out every time I ask you a question!” the professor scanned Apurva’s face. The tiredness he was carrying was evident. He had never seen such dejectedness in one of his pupils. “How about we get some fresh air? Fancy a walk around campus?”

The two walked outside, and the change was felt instantly. Apurva was already feeling good. A bunch of nerds were entering and leaving the computer lab. They looked defeated as well. A few wannabe athletes with sweaty shorts were kicking the ball around. After putting the ball in the net, they would scan around, hoping someone saw that.

Birds were chirping, and the trees were gently swaying with the wind. As they neared the library, the nerds were now intrigued, looking at them intently. “I am making them jealous. They must think I am sucking up to you for grades or something,” Apurva said. The professor smiled in response.

After walking quite a distance, the professor stopped near a tree and sat down on the bench. Apurva sat beside him. “It’s nice that you miss your past friendships–romantic and otherwise. It shows that you care. It’s not a bad thing to miss something you had once. History teaches us that. The past is your teacher. It doesn’t have to make you sad. Maybe we ought to feel fleeting sadness, sure. But do not let it cage you. Do not be a prisoner of the days gone. Learn from it instead. You are lucky you have something you can miss. You are lucky something makes you feel…”

“But what do I do by being a museum of people I’ve loved before? What do I get? I loved a few with all I had by laying bare–my heart exposed. And they walked right over me. Am I supposed to forget that? Am I supposed to live normally after that? Why must we love and forget?” Apurva asked—his lips quivering. His cheeks were cold, but his forehead was burning.

The leaves fell from the tall trees and landed perfectly and smoothly on the ground. Faraway, there were murmurs of students organising a fund-raising. The partial silence, accompanied by the loud in and out breathings of the professor, soothed Apurva. He slowly felt his head cool off. He needed that wind. He needed the ‘outside’. He also needed to hear what he heard from the professor.

“By the way, I researched Franz Jägerstätter all night. Would you sacrifice your life and family for principles?” asked Apurva. The professor smiled. “Oh, you partially did work on your report,” he said. “To answer your question, don’t you think it’s wonderful to believe in something you would gladly give your life for? I never judge historical figures. They did what they thought they had to. Can you question someone for standing up for what they believe in? We need more believers than ever, Apurva. People who believe in something and those who believe in themselves.”

Apurva stared at the group of fund-raisers coming their way. They were carrying boxes and benches, laughing away, bidding the day goodbye, not knowing they would drift away soon to the unknown future. The echoes of their laughter would no longer be heard, and the bonds they’ve built would soon be forgotten. But, looking at them, the fear of tomorrow wasn’t pasted on their faces. They looked carefree, living for the moment, unaware of life’s fleeting nature. They simply existed—like every fleeting thing does before dissolving.

The players were done throwing the ball around, and the nerds were done digging their noses in books. The dying rays of light had escaped them—the air turning cold with every passing minute. The professor was done with his Americano. They got up and made their way to the parking lot. When they neared the professor’s car, Apurva said, “I will bring my report tomorrow. I will work on it tonight.”