20◇ He/him ◇ Cinephile ◇ Header and pfp by me ◇ My og writing and rants are under the tag #my rants ◇ My photographs are under the tag #my photos ◇ I occasionally make photosets under the tag #ogps ◇ Having a bad day? There are cute cats under the tag #the meower the merrier◇
Love is stored in nicknames. Nicknames that instantly ignite a memory, nicknames that are like cousins to you, nicknames that make you feel like you could taste the flavor of you’re grandmother’s rice pudding heavy on your tongue.
I once had a girl call me Babushka. Not much thought was given to it, its the Microsoft correction of my name. But I remember her laugh as she said it, and I never understood the glee my name could give to someone. Nicknames are joy.
Friends with unseen faces call me Anu. Its a simple shortening, an impulse almost with how common my name is. So is it strange when I feel warmth radiating off my screen when I see them type my name? Nicknames are comfort.
My father has always called me Babu, since before I was born. He says I was born a father… he lost his father when he was a child. To him I am another extension of my grandfather; with the familial hair and the messy eating. Nicknames are histories.
Some put creative twists on my name, twists I helped develop. Twists from their mother tongues or from instances we’ve shared. Nicknames are memories.
One of my friends doesn’t call me Anu or any variation. They type my full name and they’d yell it. They call my name beautiful, and it is simple poetry. Everyday prosaic turned something else. Nicknames are friendship.
Childhood made everything feel like it lingered. The time it took for hot chocolate to cool down was eternal. Christmas day took weeks. The two-hour drive to my grandparents' house took us to a new world. It's all too fast now.