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).