sad girl hours - it's 5 am

somedays it feels like it doesn't matter anymore that they're gone, and on some(nights) it hits like waves.

I thought my period was over, but then I cried listening to a Bollywood song that reminded me of my ex-best friend who loved Bollywood. I went to the washroom, only to realise the blood hell is still very much active.

So I did the sanest thing—I rolled a joint. As I smoke, Maahi Ve plays in the background. Now my shoulders are lowkey dancing… and I had a breakdown five minutes ago. Human emotions are wild. Throw in a uterus, and its emotions on coke.

Now my attention shifts to Instagram. I mindlessly scroll through a few stories, not fully processing what each human has digitally expressed. I hope you’re doing well human, I hope you’re warm and safe and loved.

Now Taal Se Taal is playing. Damn, not Apple Music knowing me so well. I feel a surge of energy, like something’s brewing, and all of this… all of this is somehow leading to it. “Sab kuch likha hua hai guys!” Bollywood really does it, doesn’t it? My ex-best friend had a point. And impeccable taste. It was with him that I started appreciating the details of this art so now when I find myself listening to these songs again, the experience almost feels incomplete because he's not here, passing on random trivia about Aishwarya Rai dancing in white, looking as gracious as she does today.

Where do we go with friendship breakups, dear reader? What do I do with them? I sit with it, put myself out there again, make new best friends, and get an ‘Always’ tattoo with them, promising another forever—fearing the opposite outcome, yet still holding onto the hope that people are different and I’m a different person now. My friends make trusting them with this promise easy, but on my fourth-period day, it feels like I’ve swallowed water wrong. You know? You know.

Confession: When I’m really low, sometimes I write letters to celebrities. I think it’s from watching SRK on-screen for decades. Internalizing him as a warm, wise authority figure. One with the perfect advice, the ideal anecdote, and a warm joke that feels like a hug.

But it’s not always the fatherly advice I’m after, sometimes I want to quench my thirst.

Once, when I was feeling suicidal, I wrote a message to Shahid Kapoor.
It was a long message that ended with something like, “At the end of the day, you’re a cell. I’m a cell. Although you’re a very, very rich cell. But, still, a cell. So let’s bang it out? If consensual. Mira can join. ❤️”

These messages have not been sent, yet.

It’s become almost comical now because sometimes when I watch something brilliant, the same actor shows up in my dream for a little cameo (?). After feeling seen over The Hollywood Reporter’s Jim Sarbh and Tillotama Shome’s interview video, I had the fine Jim himself feature in my dream to bang one out. I woke up with my cat’s pee next to my pillow. Life has never humbled me so effectively.

Likhe Jo Khat Tujhe is playing.
I remember Ma singing it.
She sounds better than Rafi Saab.
And I have a feeling he’d get what I mean.

This is it, isn’t it? It’s my projections. I read, watch, listen to artists from everywhere in the world. There was a phase when I genuinely believed if John Mulaney and I ever met for a long, chaotic what-the-fuck-are-we-doing-here conversation—
it would’ve saved me. Pete Davidson created a show some time ago, and when I watched it, I wanted to desperately hug him, and thank him for his vulnerability. Pete, you have a beautiful brain; I’m sorry it plots against you at times. It do be like that sometimes.

Fleabag is always on in the background, and I watch it with full attention whenever I feel low in my womanhood. Phoebe heals, and I wonder what the inside of her brain is like.

Growing up, there were very few things that brought me comfort. Watching anything and everything was one of them. After watching Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na, I was convinced that Imran Khan would fall in love with me if we bumped into each other in one of those Bandra lanes.

As a kid, I always struggled to grasp topics that felt overwhelmingly complex. So in Grade 6, my teacher switched me from 'Higher Math' to 'General Math,' which focused more on basic algebra and geometry. Rest assured, reader, I kicked ass at 'General Math.' In fact, my friend copied all my answers during exams and got “full marks” because of me. (Sorry for ratting you out, Karishma). So I think… once you simplify things for me,

gently, and make me feel seen,

rather than lesser for not getting the 'big algebra problems,'

I’m more open and curious—

and, in turn, better at it.

And I guess that’s what these artists have done for me—made my internal and external world make sense, in the best way possible; filmmaking. I still find myself relating to a a classic Bojack spiral, despite our wildly different personalities, his tendency to self-sabotage is one I know all too well. So whenever I feel like stalking my married ex, I put on Bojack instead. And feel slightly less fucked up in this need. The horse from Horsin’ Around has saved me on many nights.

Watching Miley Cyrus juggle two lives as Hannah Montana gave 13-year-old me the courage to live my one life. Her friends felt like my friends. It was early on that I started associating the feeling of being seen with... well, content. I was making memes before they were “content pieces on a brand's content calendar.” And I made them purely for the joy of being seen by my friends. I’d create those 'What people think I do' vs 'What I actually do' memes, the setup being that I was supposed to be studying, but instead, I was just making stupid faces at a webcam site with weird filters. The internet was so simple back then. Or maybe creation was simpler for me before I turned it into my source of income.

Sometimes in social situations I find myself saying out loud ‘That is such a Claire thing to do!’ and people look at me, puzzled, “Who is Claire?” Once my sibling wisely told me “Nidhi life isn’t like the shows you watch, you cannot have that crazy character arc Jay from Modern Family had because well, you’re not a rich white man”. I protest! “But these characters.. they come from real people, don’t they?”

As a screenwriter, I’ve learned to detach from my characters to think objectively. But I’d be lying if I said a little bit (or a lot more) of me didn’t slip into each character I create.
These characters... they’re always there.
Same arcs. Same punchlines.
Same everything-comes-together-in-20-minutes episode. Same Halloween mishap. Same Ugly Christmas Sweater.
And somehow, it still works. Every single time.

As I sign off, Rang De Basanti plays. I remember dancing to it in school on Independence Day in my White PT Uniform TM. I feel 10 again. But I’m also saying goodbye to my twenties soon. It’s crazy how both these experiences can co-exist. I can feel 10 and be 29 at the same time.

Well, that’s all for now. Thank you for joining me on this journey. I sound like I run a cult. But truly—thank you for your time.
Your precious time and space in this beautiful strange wild life.

My appreciation knows no bounds.

Love,

Nidhi Wadhwa