I Write

'What do you do?' people ask me. I fumble each time. I want to begin with the list of things I wanted to become, and why. Then I want to explain why each of them got cancelled, and why. I want to justify as to why I am doing many other things along with the only one thing that I am supposed to be doing. I pause, and ask myself, 'supposed to be doing', why? Well, just because they happened to me as a chain reaction. And, the other things? Because I can multitask, or may be multi-manage. None of all that I do had ever featured in the list of things I had wanted to do, or become 'when I am big'.

I have silverstreaks on my head like a haystack. Rich. I am aging. Rapidly. Here's what I would ideally like to do:

Set up a cozy house in a minimalist apartment in a cold country. Adorn the walls of the living and other rooms with paintings and doodles. Have a cherished kitchen and an even beloved eating space. And a clean, endearing loo. There will be another room, not a cut-out, by-the-way library. A well-planned spacious writing and lounging area, comfortable with chairs and a large american-rosewood table. And I will write there. Scripts and advertisements and stories for children and stories for everyone else, anyone who would care to read. Maybe some poetry too. And some letters. The world is devoid of this one thing. The only link to the universe I would leave behind would be letters.

And be able to say to people asking me, 'what do you do?', without fumbling:

'I write.'

Yes, that is what I do.

Playmate

It was the same, but no longer august and austere meeting that I had a scheduled evening at. The moment I put off my slippers, I smiled. A three-four year old's bright blue rubber shoe was impatiently put out, one on top of the other. That must be Chhuti. Eagerly, I went in and scanned the smiles to land on her very shy eyes, spooned in her mom's lap. I swam my way across the pool of people and settled down next to her. She was in a pretty pink frock, a dull pink set immediately to light with her movements.

How often have I mentioned that Chhuti reminds me of me? Uptight she appears, like a fist, not allowing the first word in a dialogue to escape, even though immensely capable of it. And thus there pervades this coiled silence between us. After the initial discomfort, Chhuti made the first move, a look that lingered into an indecisive smile. I smiled back thinking what kind of an impossible adult I am. With that response, Chhuti transformed, blossomed. The demure appearance, now a restless one, here's what followed:

Chhuti: The similar fishing into her mother's purse began. Out came a pen, and her voice -- today, a little louder and higher in pitch than on earlier days. "Draw rain."

The gathering became pleasantly aware of the two of us taking off for the evening. And I was kind of taken aback with the demand.

Me: "I can't -- "

Chhuti: "Haaaahaaa. Hahaha. You only draw flower. I tell how to do rain."

Me: "OK boss." And passed the designated notebook to her.

As she immersed in the previous scribbles, her mother too took notice and said, "These are her doing, right?"

I smiled and tried a cloud before giving her the copy, some hurriedly done thick, teardroppy raindrops which apparently did not please Chhuti. She fought for her share of white space with her bite-size palms and once she had it, took the entire copy, got off the bed for a casual, unmindful stroll among the others. Oh, how she is cuddled by everyone. She returned to me with a packet (now we know it wasn't unmindful after all!), opened it, looked inside and passed me a very, very mischievous smile, something which possibly said (in a very, very teasing tone), "You do not know what is inside." Instead,

Chhuti: "You play ring-aa ring-aa? You dance?"

Me: "Yes. No."

Chhuti: "Why no dance? I dance." Here she valiantly flashes her winner smile.

Me: Shrug, and an attempt to find a reason more convincing than a "I-dunno."

Chhuti: "You have school?"

I assumed she was inquiring about the next day, Mahalaya, A holiday.

Me: "No!" Quite a resounding happy 'no' at that.

Chhuti: Still smiling, "Then dance!"

Me: Big-eyed and groping for the meaning in her sequence of conversation, I murmured, "How?"

Chhuti: "Oho, tell what in packet?"

Me: "How would I know, Chhuti?"

Much obviously used to my range of negatives as replies by now, she carried on, "My Raincoat!"

God, the pride in her tone! The command of ownership - undeniable. She took it out and in that august, air-conditioned gathering, wore it. Her mother gave up trying to signal her not to, and some people could not help but laugh out. It was an authoritative show of her see-through raincoat, enveloping her pretty pink frock.

As I gestured a benign "give me", she assertively stamped a "No!"

Chhuti: "You have pen, draw rain. I dance in raincoat."

Alrighty, OK, I think I get it, my love. Your raincoat versus my pen. You win. Chhuti sits in her raincoat, as she too gathers that I have got a hang of her victory over me and shades my thick teardroppy raindrops in the notebook industriously. It is here I instigate her, even more mischief down my skin:

"Chhuti, draw raindrop on raincoat."

She is arrested. Amused. She is super pleased and though she does not show it, I know she wants to get on with it right away. Two-one. I win.

Chhuti: "You do. My pen." Generously, she offers me her mother's pen. I pull her knee and scribble a cloud on her kneecap and on her elbow, another. We are both smiling. Playing. 

Playmates we had become, and though staining the sanctity of the gathering, no one complained. With her mother's permission and Chhuti's supervision, each raindrop on her raincoat was now playful. She resembled some tiny Egyptian Empress, glowing over her newly acquired territory. The appeal of being amazed sat like a halo on her.

My phone rang and the call meant I had to leave. Chhuti understood and for the first time, shedding her poised air began nagging her mother to leave too. I tried telling her I would return, but I know she felt the lack of conviction in my voice. I stared helplessly at her, ruthlessly disturbing the ceremonious occasion. Her mother gave in and as Chhuti slipped on her bright blue rubber shoes, and insisted on not opening her raincoat, she, again for the first time, began conversing with me in a normal, non-hushed tone. It is the sweet sound of a waterfall, not too high. Free-flowing, fluent.

Chhuti: "Will you go my house? Will you come my school?" And a series of such questions went on to complete the length of the lane. I diligently answered each, truthfully. As we parted on the main road, Chhuti asked after my Bye-bye was delivered, "Will you play everyday?"

She made me sad, that bundle of joy. Her earnestness is infectious and I do not wish to lie to her or break her heart. I am not an overtly touchy person, yet I bent and silently hugged her to which she fitted like a jigsaw. She knew my answer. As she plopped away with her mother I saw her animatedly show off the raindrops on her raincoat. 

Chhuti begins to end, but the unadulterated joy of Chhuti stays on.

Letter to the Goddess

:) Hi.

You know it, right, that I can never fathom the extreme hullabaloo over the festivity surrounding you? You are the mother, you reside in my heart, you are a constant, how can I? I much rather appreciate the vacation you provide, the break in the routine over the summer and winter hols. Do you feel bad? Please don't. You know I love you, don't you? This customary crowded celebration over the 'appreciation of art' is unusually boring.

You must be knowing how I used to dread the sound of drumbeats at our family residence in Tinsukia, Assam. That was just such a sick place. I loved the green composure that Dibrugarh provided. I used to be angry with you when my granny-time in Tinsukia had to be divided for an irrelevant 'pronam' that I had to offer to you. I was angry at you, especially because you knew I was angry at you.

We have come a long way since then, and how. I thank my stars that my parents have never pressurized me to feel and behave over you, like others do. I feel blessed that you still bless me in spite of me not visiting you. I specially love it that you have kind of allowed me the luxury to accept your blessings via my mother. Yes, I know she is cooler and saner and more pious than I am, thank you. I love the notion that you propagate, familial. It is intimate. What is to my distaste is the length of the queue and  thickness of the traffic and the many etceteras.

Goddess, you are grand. And your grandiose is cemented in the fact that you read this and smile, and reply. Even though you are busy decking up for and appeasing the people. Goddess, you are sweet, and strong. Goddess, I love you, I have always. But more than anything, Goddess, you understand. And accommodate.  I can never have enough of that. You accommodate everyone and everything -- how supreme must you be, how incredibly patient, how terribly big-hearted.

When you visit us this year, I will again send Mother to fetch my share of blessings. I love that smell of familiarity in the smashed petal inside a book, even if just for half a day. I love the sense of protection that the doing of the deed provides -- that mother will touch my pen to your feet. Goddess, when you visit us this year, I will be at the mountains -- from where you come -- and much though I want to say I will miss you, you and I both know I won't. I have you within me, intact. Intimate.

Enjoy the apparels and emotions. Enjoy the lights. Enjoy your vacation, Goddess!

Love,

K. 

Championship Point

I have been generally unwell for quite sometime now. Many things and a constant short term memory loss. I literally see the wires inside my head entangle further trying to remember past incidents, especially of school. I retire wishfully into virtual arcades. These headless games absolutely entice me, be it Pacman, Tetris, Snake, Zuma, or Candy Crush.

The unskilled matching of three in a row has given me so many victories that I feel like a champion. And I travel into mazes of memories as I play. Quite unwittingly I was thinking of the US Polo Assn. advert today as I was trying to break through level 382 of Candy Crush (been trying since the last three weeks). What a nice message it has, 'my father has many opponents, but not a single enemy'.

That is a beautiful kind of a world. Think, think.

I do not even have opponents; moment one crops up, I feel lazy to fight and back out. That is another kind of world again. I have 'the problem with no name'. Yet, I am a champion, in my head.

Because, my lovelies, winning never mattered to me. That classifies me as outdated. But I am loved, and loved well. Thank you. 

Letter to Blogspace

My dearest Blacksheep,

Hell, this feels bloody awesome! Thirty days. I mean, Thirty effing Days. What in you kept me going? I am not gonna restrain from language tonight. The way I returned to you most nights, it was way more effective than any addiction. In fact it was therapy. There were defined moments of inability, and pronounced time crisis. Days of extreme depressing weather and nights of extended celebrations. But I returned. With a swelled heart and a bruised ego and a fake smile, I returned. To you. To shed it all and face you, like the mirror.

I feel elated today. Things are still murky you know, everywhere around, but the warmth of returning to your arms feels like that one genuine embrace into which I willingly, lovingly surrender after the ordeal of all the hours. Ability is a strange thing indeed. I feel like celebrating, celebrating this regularity with you, but on an able-low. Yet, it is ok. That blanketty feeling is there. Winter afternoon warmth like. You have helped me live lies and face truths. You have helped me know myself better.

Each time I titled a piece, it felt as if I parented a child in a rush and left it to the concern of the world. The only conviction I had was in you. That you would protect it, make it your own, cocoon them when they needed shelter. Each night I was reported of their existence, I beamed with joy as if it was only possible because of a bewitchment. Your bewitchment.

I fondly smile at the thirty different nights. Each distinct from the other, with only you in common. You call yourself a blacksheep, but trust me you can never fathom the amount of faith you emit. I have kind of entrusted my heart to you. You know that, don't you?

I am glad to have you. I want to keep having you. I want you. This span of thirty days has been important and I owe it to praying and writing. To believing and being. To you and to me.

I love you.

Letter to Self

Good Morning K,

Yes, yes, I (we) know it is the nights...this letter will not respect National Punctuation Day and use language and grammar known to us, ok?

So...hi. How have you really, really been? Well, I mean I know how, but would you like to once answer it to yourself? Ok, ok, relax, you don't need to, stay. Don't go away. After a long time you are sticking to something with a loving regularity. Be here. To read. My letter. Your letter I mean. Err this is a bit 'K calling K crazy'. But I will persist. 

You see I love little things about you. And I want this letter to once in a while remind you that those little things should not sway. I like you smiling, like from the soul. It is a dazzling one, yes. Spreads smiles immediately. I quite like your shampoo'd hair. Oh yes they do wave about. And I love it how you are imbibing patience and striving to stay sane. Your few friends, your many loves, your one lasting relationship with art, and the many you-puzzle pieces which make a perfect jigsaw complete -- I love your weird craziness, your winged fancy and your thoughtful expenses.

What are you doing with your life? Sorry, does that sound condescending? Let me try another. Why are you doing what you are doing in life? Still the same, yes. What else could you have done? Oh dear, worse. I know since yesterday couple of people have said you look pretty ok for your age, and I am alarmed that I know how you want to finish off your life before you dwindle into that head-boundary you have set up for yourself as 'old'. But tell you what? Doesn't pay. No. This fight with fate, useless.

K, let us try, you and I, to unpack this deep-ression and do what SRK says. It is actually easy. 1-2-3-flash-a-smile. 1-2-3-live. 1-2-3-be. 1-2-3-counter fears. 1-2-3-write. You have an active head, so active that it forgets facts. You are blessed to be you, to be with people who make living worth it. You can afford a vacation. And a drink in it. You can return and afford a cycle. Or a car. How many can? Read this letter once more. After you are back from your vacation.

You will know why.

I pray that one day you will have confidence in your pocket. Till then, you can have this letter. Love etc.,

K.

Hide & Seek

Because it Rained Strokes

D E S I R E

Letter to Lies

Hello there, evil thing.

You must be well too, tucked in the unusual charm of nonchalantly not being you. Idiot. I wish I could live you. Actually, let me try! To begin with, this would be a different looking place altogether, and I would be addressing Truth about the beauty of its being and mine. Right now I would not be worried about when to shampoo tomorrow, because the entire tomorrow would be mine too. No, let me just live it like you do:

        I am now typing out a confession in a virtual space in my bright comfortable socks and warm neutral jacket. My hair is caressing my shoulder and my neckline invites the crisp air to gently bite. The steam of my black coffee sometimes condenses my specs and generally, I am in no rush. I do not bother about the finger-food (thank god I had earlier refrigerated these dollops of corn goodness) I steal into occasionally, because my weight is like a God's - perfect, with appropriate curves and absolutely no adipose. I have caught a slight cold which would be taken care of by the fabulous chicken stew I have set to brew. Even with my nose slightly blocked, I can smell the freshness of nutrition. Once it is done I will just have to season it with a generous amount of pepper. Would do good. My garlic-butter is ready to be smeared upon slices of toasts. And a little dose of Old Monk would tuck me and my cold well in the bed. Tonight I would neither smoke nor have my zarda-paan. There is no need to set an alarm, so I would either swap channels till I have a good game to enjoy on TV, or a rom-com. I might actually go out for a walk. It's beautifully breezy now. Damn these phone pings! Tomorrow I will keep the phone on silent and read a lot of random things to punctuate my cooking and writing and TV watching. The red skirt needs to be worn. I will team it up with my black t-shirt after a relaxed hot-water bath. I will also catch up with a lot of people. This husk in the voice is rare. Have to figure out a composition for Chhuti as well. Tomorrow will be as indifferent as today. And as fulfilling.

Wow. That felt nice, lies. Not consulting the watch - shit, it's past 7 - you manipulative witch. Maybe once in a while I will indulge in you. I like the ephemeral sense of being. You have such immense possibilities to make life beautiful if only you stayed on as a reverie, and not build up to become a lie. Actually, I will no more write to you. I will describe my reveries. That is truer. Or, is it?

Reveling in reveries, living in lies.
K.

Letter to Working Hours

Respected Working Hours,

That part of the day when I could break down into a waterfall quite easily. That part of the day I dread through the week. That part of the day when I wish death unto myself. The Evening of a Sunday. Disquieting.

I feel miserable right now, with my nyakra and runny-nose and congested head. I feel suffocated, and feel like screaming. I feel a lot of things. My specs are making a pronounced effect on the bridge of my nose, the under-eye buckets are darker and deeper, the usual bouncy hair is an oily-mess and yes, in one word, I feel ugly. Also, I am sneezing ceaselessly.

If it were not for an autocratic air of expectation over me, I could have missed out on tomorrow. Or any day that made me a salaried slut. Wasting hours in the name of working hours. And constantly cribbing about it to myself. This is not me. Unhappy, ruffled, distanced. I like things easy, casual, well-slotted into peace chambers. I like being lazy. And then enjoying the wasted hours which do not feel wasted at all.

Working into the hours doesn't feel like work at all when we do things we are meant to do, like this. Working hours could be so much more workable with variables of comforting company. Well, now it is just working with the hours. Life is divided into two distinct categories: Working Hours and Non-working Hours. Incidentally, and interestingly, I am most productive in the later. Content too.

I often assert that love is the beginning and end of it all. I correct myself oftener. Economics is.

K.

Letter to a Glass

Hi,

I am crushing over you, you exquisite piece of art, Bodum. For the first time my whiskey came second to the glass I had it in. It was a neat peg, topped with three ice-cubes and served perfectly by the responsible twin in a delightfully light glass. So wondrous it felt that the drink wiped away my general depressed state of nose-blowing and my eyes widened at the amazement of the double-bodied glass. So strong, so ergonomic.

I have always had this thing for kitchen knives and my collection is rather remarkable. But this? I need to be loaded to buy a pair. I will. I am pretty sure I won't be able to enjoy any drink anytime soon unless I have it in a Bodum (Pavina). I was prepped to get happy high tonight, dance some in the rain, enjoy rare moments of letting go, but it all went bambam with this beauty. I am restless, infatuated and I needed to write to be able to sleep. Forget drunk.

I am crazy about watches and fountain pens and kitchenware. You can alter the order to your preference. I also love my drink very particularly defined. It makes me a very difficult person I assume? Perhaps. But I thoroughly enjoy my roadside clay cup of tea too, which I bring in and paint and soon break. I feel I am those pieces. Like I earlier mentioned, 'the parts are not equal to the whole'.

It just needs affectionate handling. I like affection. I harbour it towards a bunch of special people. May be I can venture into writing to/about them. See you in tomorrow-town!

Handle with Care,
K.

Till then, this is what I have been crushing over:

Give me Poison, and I will drink it up!
 

Composition V

 The parts are not equal to the whole.

Burnt Siennature

Doodle + Scribble = Dribble

Pen & Ink.

Composition IV

Borrowed 

Words, Frames

Made Own

 

T E C H N I C O L O R   D R E A M S

 

Letter to _____

:) who would have thought on such a day I would end up even thinking of writing to you. I certainly wouldn't have. Hi. I know you have been good, you sexy little thing. I hate myself each time when I think of you, still. You have always unknowingly cleared the cobwebs of my head with such careless laughter and hot, tender kisses, that it is impossible not to miss you now. Now. A very bad time to be in. I knew we c/would never be, but it was so nice just to be in your arms. Almost as if life were the comfort of the warm roadside night lights creeping in through translucent window panes. That distinct dirty smile, those unbearable dimples, the naughtiest eyes, an explorer's chin and an English pronunciation to die for.

I know you are beyond me now, a happy memory. I just wanted this letter to let you (and myself) know that I never loved you. But yes, you were what chemistry is. Fuzzy Logic. And you were what I thought love was. And how happy that had made me.

More than now, when I know what it is.

I have always had this crazy notion that I will bump into you in one of the European cobbled streets, like in trash novels estranged lovers do, or, in busy airport terminals shopping for the same fragrance. And I know it in my heart we will kiss again, without much ado. And spend some intimate time together, only to depart. And that, my dear, would last me another lifetime. Another memory, another story.

I can smell you, you bastard you,

K.

Composition III

"My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat..."

The Room of My Life, Anne Sexton 

s k y w r i t i n g

Composition II

Hi!

 

Although I wasn't exactly drunk last night, or time-pressed, I was just too unable to get to the laptop to type out 'something' to you. Yes, I was short of content, or, too content perhaps :) I was bang in the middle of a much required happy-weekend. So beautiful it was. This very room peopled with love and laughter, and coziness and warmth and ac and charts and colours. All that remains now is a grey suitcase.

I made a chart all afternoon yesterday, lazying over it and loving it, and I am listening to this SRK-songs playlist (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WjOGbmS3Px0), amazed at how it is an impetus to my productivity, if not effectivity, and I am not attending calls and I am dreading another week beginning a morose Monday and I am battling innumerous anxieties strangely aggravated by the random readings of Plath I do at all times I am online and I have lost track of why I had begun with the charts...I hate Plath sometimes. She is too #whatever. Hashtags are fun. She unnerves me with her actuality. It is too similar.

There is a strange solace I find in lettering on charts with watercolours. The grip over the brush defines my being. I sing! And sometimes do a little-whoopy-dance when the tail of an F delights me, or the crown of a R enlivens the sentence. It is so different from the 'noble profession of teaching'. One can easily replace profession with performance and it would still mean the same, to me.

 

I had hit the keys with an intent to compose a letter to ____. I will, tomorrow :) I know I am currently running behind schedule in my blogging-a-day promise to self, and I also know I will make up for the lack but what I did not know was that it would have this itch in me to return to it, as if I owe a daily feed to this space for mutual benefit.

 

I feel like washing the wall with colours of sorrow, building blocks of joy. Something like Klee's Tunisian Gardens (http://www.wikiart.org/en/paul-klee/southern-tunisian-gardens-1919). I feel like commanding Friday evening to begin all over again, or, Monday to not. I am feeling too much. Not good. Time to behave. Speaking of behaviour,  do you know what became of the concluding prayer in school, "Mary our Help, Pray for Us"? Marry a Hell, Pay for Us!

 

I will shred the paper now, which had the list of all the to-do's for this Sunday evening. Immense relief. Composed.

 

 

Letter to Friday

My dearest Friday,

Hi! It is such a joy to greet you, especially with you extending onto a non-working tomorrow. A tomorrow which would not concern living in a non-civilian zone for most part of the active hours. NO, I will not complain and spoil the remaining part of you. I killed the most of you with the best of my smile. And then the rewards began.

Oh, as I now share my espresso vodka with a dear one, and have my room capacity to its brim with loved ones, this feels so good. To be writing a happy note. Is it possible because I like the prospect of making a chart, or being with colours and a madcap on Saturday?

I am being bulldozed to end this letter. So it is sudden :)

I love you today, Friday. I am still so sad I can cry. 

K.

Tale-Teller

Fly away love.

Seek, for those who cannot see, must.

Seek, and you shall find.

Tale-Teller

Composition I

Times when I was school-going, 'downhill' delighted me. You see, I used to cycle. And after that breathless uphill pedal, downhill was a happy relief of getting back lost breath and taking in daily sights with renewed outlook. Those were lovely downhill early mornings, twice, three times a week. As I take the EM Byepass each morning now, relatively early in the day (as opposed to my Barasat track-timings), the skyline grows familiar. The highrises are constantly growing and so is the serpentine race to be on time. The sky is known to me, as much as a Monet painting. Each brushstroke seems deeper and different with a new look at it, yet the landscape remains the same. The road is widening, and I am downhill. Everyday. And this time without a cycle.

 

I think I will return to writing letters from tomorrow. They make me happier than what I am now. They give me the feeling of being with the addressee. Or, compose a dream-holiday, with dream-children, and pack pretty picnics in it, and have it over strewn crayons and flying papers in autumn afternoons.

Bread, cheese, sliced boiled eggs, ham slices, orange juice and shared smiles and stories.

Tucks

Double-sided colour pencils, one almost-over HB pencil, standard and small sketch pens, a scissor, a sellotape, mini colourful ball point pens, a Penciltic red pen (essential for a teacher), a permanent marker, one white board marker, couple of glue sticks, a paper cutter, scrapbook, coloured A4 pages, a box of pins, a box of stapler pins, channel files and oh, three sharpeners -- when was the last time you sharpened a pencil? (do it now, and you will know why I ask) -- what does it sound like to you? For me, it is nothing short of a bunch of goodies. 

This was handed down to me today by someone I was least expecting them from. Them, and from, both equally important. The goodies because, really, who would hoard such stuff for the last four years, and the from because it was most unlikely. I am surprised at how swell I am since. I feel like a child at a fair, aiming to shoot down all balloons in one go. Or, like a teenage schoolie peeping at one's crush. I feel like sharing them with everyone I love, and those I don't. I feel I can write a book, sketch a bridge, build a castle (up in the air). I feel empowered.

Tucks are genuinely great buffers. I think of stories again, around me. And note the change in the very language of billboards with Durga Puja approaching. Everyone is in this invisible race to gobble up the next twenty-five days or so. We smell 'Puja air', see 'Puja sky', shop 'Puja clothes', wear 'Puja smiles'. For as long as I can remember, I have disliked Pujas. They seemed to me to be an extended childhood-Sunday. For the last couple of years, I have deliberately tried being away from this crowded joyous city. I am fleeing to Bhutan this time. I feel tucked with the very thought. Mountains, and old monk(s).

The newspapers appear (yes, unlike the normal educated Bengali, I do not subscribe to any) to be full of offers. Yet, none could ever offer me the exact bliss of feeling blessed that the above tucks did. This must be the feeling then? Puja blessings? Ah, well, very very well-blessed. Thank you, S. 

Letter to No Subject

No Subject,

It is exactly a month today. In the battle of survival, I won. Somewhere deep within, I knew I would. Which was judiciously why I picked up writing as soon as I began withering. And just as I typed out the previous line, it begins to rain noisily, bringing in news of death. The entire notion of victory over survival changes in a second. :)

I wish to be elsewhere now, right now. Somewhere, where 'escape' is an active verb, and not a poetic concept. I wish to be unborn, if that can be. I wish to write the night out and yet, I feel the similar void I feel each time. I feel the wobbliness all over me, within me. Is this all momentary? Then, it is momentous. 

There is no letter to be neatly written out tonight, to loves unrequited. There is no story of a holiday. Or, how-beautiful-is-the-rain. And there are no wordy graphic experiences. If there is, there is just one frail heart, beating uneven, and one weak tummy, really grumpy. And, a distance in between.

Which I soon hope to bridge,
K.

Letter to Letter

Dear Letters,

Hi! :) It would be only so unfair if one wasn't addressed to you in my letter-a-day week. We have been thick as thieves, haven't we? My earliest memory of you, of course, was traumatic. When father used to dictate and I had to write you out for him. And later started giving me the matter to draft you. And even now asking me once in while as his hand doesn't quite keep from shaking to send a thank-you to someone, or a wish to someone else. Yes, I was rude to him couple of years back when I insisted that no one read his letters of no value, and he stopped, but if I have it in me to write to you today, it is because of him.

I am also reminded of the many times in a convent school when one crushes over a senior and a letter becomes the only way of expressing innocent passions. And when friendships had to be sorted through your sheaves, or built. Then there were the letters to my first love -- he who never replied, but I knew he smiled over them, the charming bastard, one of the first people who knew my language well. My little bit of blue sky.

Those endless applications I have made, the routine postcards I have used to answer Surabhi questions, inland conversations with my twin-boys then in their hostel, letters from clubs and organisations, letters to educational institutions and educated people, come to think of it, we have had a shared lifetime. I often page through old letters addressed to God, found towards the ends of notes and notebooks, dated a day before any examination.The man who claimed to have loved me actually fell in love with my correspondence, and the person next, lived with me a dreamworld therein, and so on. Love kept happening, and love kept lettering.

What becomes of you when we are done reading? You are so cautiously preserved for a period of time, so well gorged over that period, and then, suddenly shredded. I remember burning so many letters. Just as a customary delete action. Now that I think of it, in spite of the shredding and the burning, you are still a memory. Heart on sleeves? I wore my heart all out on you, love. This writing exercise I have begun, the daily bit, progressed well because I put in this week dedicated to you. This one week felt like a pilgrimage I looked forward to, each moment of the day I was or was not chained. Maybe it did not exactly include the notion of traditional letter-writing - on page in ink, but it felt bloody good.

Thank you for letting me be, as always.
K.

Letter to Chhuti

Dearest Chhuti,

It is strange that I am writing to you, a student of "LKG-B." I know you will never read this, or fathom either. But I had to. Thing is, I miss you, and so love the essential concept of you that anything otherwise is routine.

They who do not let us be, do not understand our world, Chhuti. One in which we are lost in white pages and ink, and oh, I am really sorry that I did not let you use my fountain pen the other day. You will need to be 'big' to hold and handle it, child. They may also not be able to understand our language, it is not their fault. They do not perceive how a lotus and a marigold stem out together. But we do, and do it together, so, it's ok!

I lied when I told you that I have no class, I do. Also that I am not in any school, I am sufficiently schooled too. And yes, I have friends I can count on my fingertips, like you. I did have a pen, that day when you asked one from me. I just wanted a conversation with you, hence I lied. It did us more good than bad I believe. I love it when you locate me at our meeting-place and after the two occasional visible lumps of to-come-at-once-or-not, you do. And we begin our rendezvous.

Chhuti, you invigorate me. Today's letter had to be to you because in many ways I do not have you around when I want to. It is said that one cannot be addressed a 'dear' unless one becomes dear, and to become one's dear, you ought to know the person, spend time and the like. I beg to differ. I will not disclose whether you are or not (in reality), especially for the discomfort of all those who have read Time-Out and Comforter, but I will disagree with the given premise and settle for a very dear in addressing you. You certainly are.

I have come to love you, child.

K (or, whatever you wish to call me).

Letter to KS

College: When I think of teachers today, seven years of being in this practice myself, the one who stands the tallest, grandest and most unassuming is you. Not that I have ever been close to you, or known you personally, but you, like the river journey you taught us of, have been a journey.

I remember laughing at Tang, crying on the stairs outside your classroom, at not being able to attend your lecture. We couldn't understand what was wrong with an apparently normal graduate girl. I also remember us rubbishing your first few lectures as 'entertainment'. Today, I am supposed to meet you. This happened because SM insists you remember me.You called me 'Posterwallah', and 'Swaty'r Kuntala'. And you took those amazing Super-Saturday classes of two Poetics and two American. You made us realize that teaching can be made easy, accessible and suave. Your examples are legendary. How did you carry on? I gasp after one slot of one and half hours. Of neither Aristotle, nor Toni Morrison.

Home: I met you today after seven years, and you made me feel that there never had been any year in between. Or that I was lying when I said, 'Not that I have ever been close to you, or known you personally...'

I happened to this academic jungle as per a circuitous chain of positive marksheets. It only seemed logical thus, that I would go 'into teaching'. I would not really mind, even now, if I am out of it, and happily moderately successful elsewhere. But while I am here, I can never tell you (and hence this letter) that the greatest responsibility I feel towards my profession is because of you -- my initials.

They entrust sincerity, true to the letters.

Warmest regards,

Kuntala.

Letter to Wedding Saree

Kalchey-Laal Benarasi, hello.

This letter, were it a faded blue inland one, posted physically, would find its way inside the divan into the saree stack which is not worn often. Once there, the letter would have to make its way down to the bottom to reach you, you yard of memories. I did not address you as 'dear', and I think that itself speaks volumes. You are one short of a decade and I still have you around, without any particular fondness.

You were bought without my interest or consent, except concerning the size of the motifs that ornamented you. And I draped you without any of the special attachment I have towards my greys or whites. I always saw you as a burdensome element in my wardrobe, to be handled with extra care, which came along with the unnecessary premium of celebrated emotion.

I can easily have so much more of you willingly, if only I were allowed to sew you into cushion covers, or refashion you into runners, or, just as a fancy table cover sometime. But, no. Your ego would not let me do that to you. So stay, stay unworn and useless. This letter finds you in perfect 'red' of health, I know. But the moments associated with you, they were never so.

Tomorrow is Teacher's Day, and having you around has been like this unending supply of tolerance I have had to soak myself in. It comes from the very thought of you. Not having helped your specific cause, it has helped me in most other ways. Also, in being a teacher. So, though unwanted, thank you. You may miss the smirk I have whenever I chance upon you, but please do not miss the essence of this letter. I hereby highlight it:

You taught me a lesson.

You still teach.

 

See you soon. As I ruffle on which saree to wear on Saturday, when I go for the lunch for teachers. Be sure to smile back and later, yield your ego.

K.

Letter to You

Dear You,

Yes, you. The one reading this blog -- the couple of constants who do, and the random ones who come across and finish it through. Thank you. It is humbling that you invest your valuable time and emotions connecting with what I write. It is encouraging and a great expectation I now have on myself when I come to know that you look forward to it, everyday. Over a period of a week, the equation suddenly inverses from my need and decision to blog-a-day, to my want and desire to do so.

What was all that about? This self-imposed prescription of words? You tell me, yes you, what do you think it was? Do you presume I need your attention, your appreciation, your adulation? Or, do you think I am content without it, and write for something else altogether? I must have become this person to you that you choose to make out of me, no? Someone weird, or maybe talented, or prolific and lazy...what? But something that you make me, that is what I become.

Some of you get back to me regularly after each post. A double thank you to you, yes you. That has become an extended part of my writing. How do you do it? This regularity? It is like the cigarette one psychologically needs to poop, you know...one does not actually need it. And then you say, "whatta jolly good poop!" 

I love it, our relationship, of me writing and you reading. For me it is like the warmth of the dark rum I am currently abstaining from. Its taste and texture touches you right from the sip, cycling down your throat, as it travels the length of the food-pipe, and finally melts your soul. That is what you do to me, yes you. Somewhere, unknowingly, you complete me.

Without you, I still am, but just a nothing. Let me keep writing, because you would read. Yes, you.

Yours,

K.

Letter to the Liftman

Dear Liftman,

My first memory of feeling for your kind was ten-eleven years back, while accessing the lift at Birla Academy of Art & Culture, Southern Avenue. As we squeezed in that cage-like steel-box, I looked at you, old man. You must have become old catering to people going up and down the same building. I don't know why, I felt very bad for you. What must be your life like, old man?

Your fraying hair, your shabby stubble, your tattered uniform shirt, and your demanding children at home. Yes, I always imagine your kids must not be too old than I am, yet much different. Not understanding where their father procures the municipal school-fees from, and tutions and travels to and fro, and the packets of chips they listlessly bite into. How must your wife be like? She must have hundreds of silent complaints against you. Do you hold onto each other when you fall asleep? Do you at all fall asleep together anymore? Do you sleep in a room where you do not even share your bed with your wife? For a person who is always with people, do you feel lonely most of the time? Are you together, old man, with any one?

How do you while away your time in this routine of pressing 1-2-3-4 for ten-twelve hours, everyday, old man? Do you imagine stories about the lives of people who enter your lift-kingdom? Do you imagine yourself to be the king of that tin-box? Do you gather that I thought out a story around you? Gradually, your memory only strengthened, you know. In all lifts I enter, I compare and contrast your life with the king of that domain.

The college I currently work in, has someone relatively younger than you inside the lift. He has to handle five floors of girlish giggles at any given point of the day. Sometimes, when I used to find him alone, it was him reading the Hanuman Chalisa. I gave up using the lift inside two weeks of my employment. I never quite understood why a liftman is required, anyway. Ya, I do understand the logic that it will be made dirty and misused by all the educated, insensitive people using it. And, if you weren't inhabiting it, I would never get to write you this letter.

I must confess, even though I feel for your kind, I too am not any more kind than that occasional, or, is it the habitual 'thank-you' I leave the lift with, so, sorry. However, apart from having you in my memory to facilitate my sensitivity at will, I would like to mention that it is your professional boundary that inspires me to stick to mine. For you, only with vertical movements at your disposal, have become good, old and I believe, figured out a way to survive it. I tend to forget how blessed I am, each time I complain about being ill-at-ease.

This is all I wanted to convey. Of all those who have used your services innumerable times, or just once, one person does remember you. I know, knowing it would matter nothing to you at all. Your perseverance is legendary. And though it is something which is inconsistent in me, it is indeed a lesson learnt. Old liftman, forgive me, for this letter would be read by everyone but you.

Believe me, I think of you.

K.

Letter to Dash

Dear Dash,

I have quite given you up, haven't I? Those own spaces, them pertinent three dots and the complete lack of your compatriot punctuation marks...frankly, my infatuation led me to start to stop(s). It is not that I have forgotten you or about you...how else would I be writing this, otherwise? Nor is it an apologetic confession of not being with you, as fluid as tears do.

You packed my life with so many blanks and so much blankness that it is good I can do without you now for a while. Gives me a sense of being in a rucksack. Compact, and comfortable. I have loved you though, madly. And I still smile when I think of you. Of how you were an essential composite of my character. Blanks are necessary in the making of a whole, and I will always be grateful that you were heavily, and you slightly are...

Dash, you haven't forgotten our togetherness, right? You were part of my growing up, the impressions I have formed, the dreams I have weaved, the letters left unwritten...I could begin this series of letters only with you, because there is a strange sense of bond I feel with you - unknown, unrecognised, unspoken. The bond of the slave and the master, the captive and the wall, the love and the beloved...and yet to let go...

Someday I will write again to you, Dash. Till such time, you can count the uncountable times dash has been applied here...for I may have quite given you up, but I haven't quite given up on you...

With you in my heart, away from me,

K.

Letter to Part-time Love

Hi,

On and from my Dubai visit, three things have been priceless -- the wonderful memory of the stay at our host's, my Seiko, and the green Fila loafers. The green loafers were a favourite, and I often teamed it up with a white shirt and blue jeans, in spite of being way fatter then than what I am today. It was so unusual a colour for a shoe back in 2007-8, that there have been instances when, say, at a given place, if I left my shoes out anywhere, it would be identified as mine. The colour was catchy, not loud. It was shrinking with many washes and finally, the mother gave it away to the kids in the next-door garage, last year. It was compensated by a loafer from Woodlands almost immediately, which had the same green as a part of the upper. I love that shade in a shoe, I don't know why.

It is strange that on a day in which I indulged extensively in retail-therapy, the brownie would come as a gift from I's mother -- a Mandarina Duck bag, given to me especially because neither her, nor her daughter c/would use it. Why am I even writing about it? Because the only reason they couldn't carry it was the colour -- the Fila loafers green :) When you have loved something deeply, the universe conspires in its own mystical way blah-blah...

Part-time love can be intensely involving. It is no less than a full-time commitment. And so fulfilling. Like a promise which emanates hope, even if it results in being broken. Beautiful things these -- love, promises, memories...I loved a lightning. Shred me with tender love-bites into violent bitter-bits. My love wasn't the green which returned, changed in form. My love was fully part-time, from which I emerged, stronger, deeper, mellower. Who said part-time love couldn't exist? It filled me up.

A palette, if not a canvas,
Full-time yours, K.