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.