Letter to Hope

Greetings, distant one!

Each time I take your name I think of Out of Business where Rama Rao, in an attempt to start searching for work, discovers how solving crosswords can prove to be a lottery. The crossword mentioned in the story and which remains in my memory is -- 'Some people prefer this to despair'. And the options for the correct answer were -- hope, dope, rope. It is strange how out of the three options, dope and rope are tangible and take you onwards a tangible despair. You are out of the business of consideration!

You and I have always had such a detached relationship that it is taking me unusual bumpers to cross to write to you. Rare moments of having a difficulty in written interaction. So, the thing is, we have distanced too many miles apart and moments away and this monotonous, routine existence without you is leaving me demented. An overdose of practicality, and a lack of you have come together to wither me from within. I think the distancing with you began with my parents wanting to bring up their only daughter in a non-pampered, non-spoilt manner, bearing which I discarded you. There was no point hoping for an extra pencil-box, or a flashy skirt, or a birthday present from them. So I grew up showering all I have hoped for on myself in a planned, patient way. And I taught myself that having you around is like a bad buffer. You break even the soul.

Hope, all this while having done myself a strong deal good is all good and nice, but I cannot any more. I am failing miserably. Little things are necessary and need to happen in life and for them to happen I must have you. For each of those times that I spend in front of the monitor, glaring at the Himalayan range teary-eyed, I need to have you to have the heart to believe that someday I will set foot and breathe free there. Someday. For each of the time I am hurt I now need you to believe that the next time will be a little less hurting. And for the dominance of monotoneity I want you to assure me that spontaneity will return.

At this moment I want to cuddle a child and play with her curls and sleep with her and her crayons inside a comfortable blanket, both of us smelling of oranges. I want to whip some magic inside me which would make me believe in you unfurling one day, rather than remaining as a part of this letter.

Hope to see you soon,

K.