Like the Fragrance of an Old Flower

There is a strange kind of silence that grows with age… especially when you are a gay man and alone. It is not loud, not dramatic—but it sits inside you, quietly asking questions you no longer have answers to.

Nothing feels more exhausting than starting again and again with strangers. Random conversations, random hopes, random disappointments. And somewhere in between, you wonder—was it always this difficult, or did it become worse with time?

In India, finding someone “reasonable” itself feels like a luxury. The ones who could have understood you are already gone—settled, married, or hidden behind walls they built to survive. Some visit occasionally, not to stay, but to escape… and then disappear again.

And then there are the others. Boys who are too young to understand what they are promising. Men who are old enough but somehow never grew up. Conversations that revolve only around themselves. Connections that feel hollow even before they begin.

Sometimes, out of sheer emotional suffocation, you return… hoping this time it might be different. But it rarely is.

And then the same old question returns—why does finding love feel like such hard work for someone like me? Why is there no simple, accidental meeting… no effortless belonging?

I had once believed I had found it. But some people don’t leave loudly… they just fade away, like the fragrance of an old flower—leaving behind a memory that refuses to disappear.