Did You Ever Love Me? by Rithvik Singh is a tender contemporary poetry collection about love, heartbreak, longing, self worth and learning to let go. Its greatest strength is emotional accessibility: Singh writes directly to readers who feel intensely and care deeply. The collection offers comfort without pretending heartbreak is simple, though its simplicity may occasionally feel familiar to seasoned poetry readers. Did you Ever Love Me? Have you ever loved someone so completely that, after they left, you were left wondering whether they had ever understood what they had been given? Not merely whether they loved you, but whether they ever noticed how much you loved them, how much patience you offered, how many small things you remembered, or how often you chose to stay when leaving might have been easier. There is a particular loneliness in that question because it rarely arrives at a dramatic moment. More often, it finds you while you are doing something completely ordinary. Yo...
In the town of Serangoon Pines, nestled amidst the greenery of old Singapore, a woman reflects on her tumultuous childhood and the people who denied her love and self-worth. Through heartfelt introspection, she discovers that her uniqueness is her strength. Set against a backdrop of whispering trees and vintage charm, this tale of self-forgiveness and empowerment will resonate with your soul.
What was the weather like that day?
It was a peculiar afternoon in Serangoon Pines. The rain had come and gone, leaving the earth fragrant with the promise of renewal. Pearly-grey clouds, dappled with reluctant sunbeams, hung lazily overhead, casting a wistful charm over the landscape. The town buzzed with the hum of cicadas, punctuated by the occasional croak of a bullfrog.
As I sat on the wrought-iron bench by the pond, the reflection of the swaying banana palms danced across the surface. Each ripple seemed like a whisper from the past, echoing memories I wasn’t sure I wanted to revisit.
Who was I, and who were they?
My name is Gauri, a name meaning "radiant," though, for much of my youth, I was anything but. My hair, a chaotic tumble of chestnut waves, seemed to embody my inner turmoil, while my almond-shaped eyes—keen, curious, and always questioning—were often the first to betray my sorrow.
My great injustice was this: the echoes of voices from my childhood, voices that told me I was not enough.
I was born in a home that smelt of old books and jasmine incense, but despite the soothing scents, love often felt absent. Father’s favourite line was: "You would do well to be like your cousin Mira, Gauri. Look at her grades, her poise, her…" and so on. Mira. The paragon of perfection, who probably woke up each morning with her hair already styled and a gold star stuck to her forehead.
Mother, meanwhile, was too busy wrestling her own demons to see the ones nibbling at me. Her furrowed brow was a permanent fixture, as though every hour of the day was a battle to be fought and lost.
And so, like a sapling overshadowed by towering banyans, I struggled to find light in my own home.
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What did I learn from those who denied me love?
As a child, I wore their barbs like badges. "You are too sensitive, Gauri." "Why can’t you be tougher, more resilient, like your brother?" they would say. I believed them, carried their judgments like a sack of stones, until one day, many years later, I stopped.
That day, sitting in a sunlit reading nook at The Rambutan Arms, a café that served lychee martinis alongside Dostoevsky paperbacks, it struck me: how could they have nurtured me when they were so lost themselves? The lines around Mother’s mouth weren’t born of cruelty—they were carved by her war with self-doubt.
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Why was forgiving myself so hard?
That evening, I walked into the garden overgrown with wild passion fruit vines curling around banana palms, but the jacaranda tree still stood tall, shedding lavender blossoms like tears.
I sat beneath its branches and closed my eyes, imagining my younger self sitting beside me.
I told my inner child, “Baby, it wasn’t your fault. You believed them because you didn’t know better. But you are beautiful, worthy of love, and born to be different.”
The words felt foreign, but as I said them aloud, they began to take root. The garden seemed to respond, the scent of jasmine wafting in on a sudden breeze.
It was liberating yet bittersweet. Imagine peeling an orange under the shade of a mangosteen tree—juicy and bright, but bittersweet. That is forgiveness for you.
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How does Serangoon Pines reflect this journey?
Serangoon Pines itself seemed to mirror my story. The town, filled with crumbling colonial villas, was a peculiar marriage of decay and beauty. Wild bougainvilleas climbed over aged fences, and prickly durian trees stood tall in the yards.
Each element spoke to me: the rugged paths, like my journey; the resilient flora, like my determination; the rain-drenched afternoons, like the peace I now sought.
Over the next few weeks, I tended to the garden. I cleared the weeds, planted saplings, and built a stone bench beneath the jacaranda tree. It was hard work, but with each passing day, I felt a sense of accomplishment.
Why was this not a journey of solitude?
That day at the café, a stranger joined me. He was a wiry man in a brown corduroy jacket, smelling faintly of sandalwood and espresso. “That book,” he said, nodding to my dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre, “one of the best explorations of self-worth, don’t you think?”
We talked, mostly about books, but eventually about life. He shared how he had spent years trying to please an absent father. I told him about Mira and my penchant for imagining her falling into mud puddles.
“Don’t you think,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “that we are just all bananas in the grand fruit salad of life? A little bruised, maybe, but still sweet enough for dessert.”
What changed when I embraced myself?
When I left the café, the sky had cleared, and sunlight streamed through the canopy. It wasn’t just the weather that had changed—I felt lighter.
I no longer needed validation from others who couldn’t even love themselves. I was free, like a rambutan tumbling from the tree, unencumbered by the fear of judgment.
What happens when you meet a ghost from the past?
Fate, it seems, has a wicked sense of humour. A few days later I ran into Mira at the local bakery. She was standing by the counter, debating the merits of a pandan cake versus a durian puff.
“Mira?” I ventured, unsure if time had been kinder to me than it had been to her.
She turned, her eyes lighting up briefly before dimming again. “Gauri! My goodness, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
We exchanged pleasantries, but the air between us was heavy with unspoken truths. Mira’s once-perfect posture seemed slightly hunched, her face lined with worry.
“It is funny,” she said finally, “people always thought I had it easy. But the pressure to be perfect—well, it is exhausting.”
Her admission was a revelation. Mira, the golden child, was just as trapped as I had been, only her prison was gilded.
Mira was everything I wasn’t. She played the piano, danced like a swan, and had the kind of slender ankles that poets might immortalise. I, on the other hand, preferred books over ballrooms and was often found sprawled beneath the jacaranda tree, scribbling my wild ideas into a notebook.
“Such a waste of time,” Mrs. Choi, my neighbour, would chide.“You will grow up as dull as unpolished brass if you don’t change.”
Can forgiveness free the future?
On a whim, I decided to visit Mrs. Choi. She was older now, her once-sharp features softened by age. Her house was cluttered with unopened books and dusty photographs, a museum of regrets.
“I always wanted to be a writer,” she said unexpectedly, her voice trembling. “But my family thought it was frivolous.”
Her confession hung in the air, a reminder of the chains we forge for ourselves.
Forgiving her wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. As I held her frail hand, I realised that forgiveness wasn’t about absolving her—it was about freeing myself.
Today, I sit under the old banyan in my garden, a glass of Shiraz in hand and Jane Eyre on my lap. The mango tree overhead is heavy with fruit, a fitting metaphor for the abundance I have discovered in my life.The setting sun bathed the sky in hues of orange and pink, and for the first time in years, I felt at peace.
I look back, not with anger or regret, but with understanding. My inner child smiles. “We made it,” she says, and I nod.
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Tushar Mangl – Energy Healer and Author of The Avenging Act. Writes on personal finance, Vastu, mental health, food, leisure, and a greener, better society. Speaker, author of Hey Honey Bunch, Ardika, and I Will Do It. Seeks to create a greener, better world.
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