Letter to Cabbie

Dear Cabbie,

I own a car today, and drive it too. Around, and often. But I want to write to you because I have been put off driving for about a week, and in the process availing a lot of cabs, especially in the mornings. This letter can't find you. It will be lost in the many mazes of yellow you could possibly queue up in. It is a tiny thing, this letter, compared to how large you made me feel that day of a rainy summer. Not many years ago.

Do you remember? I assume not. Let me try. I was a non-descript and non-striking, neither attractive or attractively dressed, rather fat young woman. In plain clothes which speak of procrastination over interest. It was raining, heavily, that afternoon. Suddenly. I had to reach somewhere for some work and all other modes of transport would have delayed me. So I flagged you to stop. From your point of view I must have appeared as a sound bait. I had a touristy look declared on my face and told you at the very moment I shut the door that I could not reach the place without your sense of direction.

When I think of that day now, I realize how foolish I must have looked. But you did not take advantage or extra smart lanes to reach the destination fast. You were patient to my unending, unnecessary, out of nervousness questions and brought me home to where I should be, dry and safe. And as you explained how the meter worked, and how calculations were done, you did not have the smirk on you. You made me feel as rich as I saved to ensure a cab ride in distress that day. You made me feel special and proud. That I could afford you. I felt majestic.

And all this came back to me last evening when I was in one cab and thought of how you must be feeling about the hundreds of passengers, and their hundred kinds, who avail your service. If I were you, each would be my raw material for a story. Or would they? Are you not?

Do you feel sad when people discuss food, and food joints and clothes and big problems of not getting desired discounts? Do you remember any particular conversation? Do you understand the need of malls, and surprise birthday parties? Do you care for the veiled kisses? Do you indulge in eyeing an attractive passenger? Do you plan who to fool and who not to by their faces? Do you remember me?

Accompanying your loneliness,

K.

Letter to Love II

Sometimes, the fingers dance on the keys in a ballet movement, aching to complete that which is yet to start. At such times when the rational fails to supply who the dance is for, the heart takes over. To you. I tried not writing, again. But the words seem to appear out of the wand as if nothing else could be. Hello, love.

It is now six months, half a year of writing letters. To him and to her, to this and that, to someone, some body and nobody. To the many knowns and the some unknowns. To you. And in all such letters, you have featured, either with your obvious presence, or your grand absence. Grand conspicuous absence.

As far as hope goes, well, it comes and goes! And I notice how it has taken you along. But I see that hope has not seen how you have maintained friendships with hope, and with me. Love, earlier I requested to you return, to stay. You never bothered to reply, let alone reassure. But I had to let you know my senses are heightened, and understanding deepened.

I looked for someone else, not you. And you, you never left, did you?

It takes one to love,

K.

Letter to Stories

:) And thus we meet, and how we meet. As if we were never separated. True, you did not happen to me as a childhood maternal narrative out of books or illustrations, or even grandmotherly narratives of once-upon-a-times. Yet you have always been there. In the un-weaving of personal histories over collective fantasies. And you always made an ordinary aunt a queen, or an even more ordinary uncle a superhero. Regular events at places that known faces visited became kingdoms of original enchantment. Words off real-life conversations sounded parable like. The sound of spices being ground on a mortar and pestle, became an irritant initiation to Sundays of open-eyed, mute story-telling to self. You entered my life with a flair that goes unnoticed for being only too natural. I began living with you.

Walls became my canvas, my playground. I could whip you up at my fancy and not share you. Your colours catered to my monochromatic mind. I remember unending hours of staring at the wall (at least that is how I must have appeared), and no longer seeing a wall. It would often be a green field of little white flowers punctuated by yellows, pinks and purples. And butterflies would speak. As would rivers. Speech, yes, that was something you endowed on everyone. Free speech. Then there were glamorous city streets drowned in dimmed winter lights. Sometimes there was a turbulent sea of food, and a thick mattress of money. At other times palaces waiting to be redone and parallel universes inviting to be visited. You were the best thing, the best friend. You gave me a timid blue sky full of loving companionship.

One day, you left. Suddenly. And the walls stared back. Blankly.

I was dislocated -- rootless and wing-less. The scraping colours off the walls spoke no more than about the demand for a fresh coat. When I facilitated a determined effort, the walls opened in a squeamish manner, swallowing me down to a dark darkness of deep endlessness. The place seemed old and rotting, mossy ugly green. Things would choke me from nowhere, as I clawed back out of the walls. You left me behind a constant enemy.

I stopped looking at walls, I stopped listening to people gurgling out their spirited experience around you. And then, to escape these, I took to the spare page and pen, and began doodling. Ugly crisscrosses of words that went on to form images that began building you back in my life. You returned, in an ordered fancy. You stayed, in an eclectic frenzy. Oh, I adored your recurrence. You were not new, but so new.

Skies are grey, city streets smell of coffee and mountains smile to unveil kingdoms under seas. Words costume you. Colours deck you and rainbows are inked. I feel rooted, even with wings. I am glad you have returned reasonably.

Yours, unabridged,
K.

Letter to Numbers

Revered Numbers,

Most mean things have the mega misconception that they are respected. The use of 'revered' must have given you that same feeling. Well, I cannot put it across in any other way but bluntly -- you are basically feared. I ask this genuine question to specific people, 'What is the use of Maths'? No answer till date has been able to suffice my satisfaction. And I hate it that my daughter will have to undergo the same ordeal of battling her way through numbers, if she doesn't end up having a panache for them.

Have you ever thought, of what good is your existence? I was struggling to find a way to defend myself when I could not explain the policy of a sweet shop to my cousin, R, last night. 'It is not half price because, if one kachori is priced at Rs 4/- I won't be getting it at Rs 2/- post 8.30 pm. What I would be getting is two kachoris for Rs 4/-. How is it half price? It is double benefit.' And he responded that I suck at Maths. Like hell I probably do. But if I can manage to have the kachoris with a friend, savoring the reduced rate in the middle of an unplanned feast, how do you feature?

As I was blanketing myself from the thunder and lightning, I could almost see myself in a conversation with you. One of those rare sentence exchanges where I was completely convinced that we rather have arguments over numbers. Arguments, over numbers. They would reach a confident conclusion. Right now, there are numerous yous, playing around my head like a party between protons and neutrons. Of which too, I understand little.

Unkn0t me,
K. 

Letter to Bhutan II

This is weird. A letter to you in a span of twenty four short hours. But it is also inevitable. Lot of things happen when I drive alone, when ideally I should be focused only on the visibility of the ahead. But what does one do when this is exactly what is veiled? Bhutan, Bhutan, dearest Bhutan. This morning in that stretch from Chingrighata to Science City, I felt as if the conspiracies of the universe wished to gift me a reply. From you. I have never had this experience of driving in fog as thick as this morning's, but I felt the nearest to it when we were driving uphill, unprotected by man-made railings, on a moonlit night, which hardly felt so because of the dense white which blindfolded us. Our driver insisted he didn't face the same problem that I, seated next to him, faced. I found it difficult to believe him, so turned to you instead. You and all that you offered. White night. Dark night. White linen spread against a black velvet.

I return to this morning. After the initial attempts at cleaning the glass, I was taken aback by the sudden assault of fog. And then the assault of your memory. As I fiddled to find out how to drive safe and became a chessplayer maneuvering my moves armed with the power gear of my tiny super-car, I realized I was misted by your absence. Your presence.

I rolled down the car window, and let in some of the chill of the clouds. I could smell the waft of happiness arising from supreme missing. The cars in front blinked their tail lights like tiny wedding beams of delight. We swam slowly in the sea of white, synchronized in our joint surprise. I could feel you, charmed with my thank you. It felt like tripping with the clouds, complete with the smell. That stretch is now going to remain a favourite, forever.

The reply was read,
K.  

Letter to Self III

Hi!

You needed to be written to. Replies, like holidays, are things you hardly get to see anyway. I know not of another person who writes letters so compulsively that she even believes she needs to compose one to self. Three times over. At one level, this might seem pretty crazy, while at another, perfectly exquisite. To receive a letter from self. You should actually complete the process, take a print of this, sign, seal and post it -- the good old way. And then forget about it. And one day, when you are probably in the middle of two phone calls and thirteen texts and forty nine stories, managing everything while having cold tea and passing expert consultancy, you will be shocked to the bone to receive and read it.

K, you are now in this process of writing letters to all those who 'call' at you, yet, you hardly know if they do. Many others, however, do. I know you feel pleasantly embarrassed when they say that as a piece of writing, the letters are novel and thoughtful and, a habit. I also know most of the times you do not understand this consistency -- your writing, and their reading. I am aware of the many millions of doubt infesting your super-active head this moment and the more than million strings of determination trying desperately to tie them down. You are such a beast, K, I feel bad for you sometimes, and at others, immensely good. That is what, you do not even command one direct response! Doesn't this constant oscillation trouble you? Of course it does. Why am I even asking.

I loved it that you hand delivered your letter to the car. I also happened to read your hundred undulating thoughts while you were doing so -- that you are a perfect moron, that, no, you are fairly decent, that you are over-thinking, and that you were being overtly luxurious in living out a simple wish. I really wish to hold your hand and hold it tight when you are breaking down into hundred fragments, trying to figure out how is it that you are writing out the thoughts so articulately, when living isn't exactly so. Earlier I thought it was funny to see you curious about who your readers in Spain and France and Ireland are. But I quickly grasped you were suffering, not out of curiosity, but a genuine perplex that such was not possible.

It hurts me to see that you are handling the double pain of facing your ability, and appreciation for it. It hurts me further because I do not know what to do about it. Perhaps just reiterate things you already get to hear. Or, keep things unsaid. Unlettered.

I die with you, each time afresh, when you disbelieve in yourself,
K.

Letter to Bhutan

Dearest Bhutan,

I had always wanted to time travel to Warsaw, walk the cobbled streets of Paris and safely return from Afghanistan. None have come true, though I have walked many safe cobbled streets and acquainted myself with much of history. You were just a destination arrived at without research, and on the good old charm of word of mouth. Honestly, I also quite liked it that you are 'foreign' without the problem of Passport and Visa. When I decided on you and began with my research it seemed as if the conspiracies of the world combined to pull me you-wards.

I admit I gambled with the number of days dedicated to you, but by then I had a faith that things were meant to be like this. And in that one step that separates political areas, I understood the conspiracies were correct. You were meant to happen. Having travelled to more than half a dozen countries, I always found similarities in them. Or at least, counted the differences. But I never came across any country which proclaims itself to be a "Kingdom of Happiness". In fact, I have never known the two ideas of Kingdom and Happiness to be juxtaposed with each other, in any context. Fairy-tales illustrated evil Kings, and Tragic Drama poeticised territories as personal dilemma. Never had I earlier read of any nation which has a policy of "Gross National Happiness". How do you do it? Your blueprint is alluring.

You are the fewest I have known who inhabit such an enormously accommodating soul. Mentioning your beauty as mesmerizing will be being repetitive. I could willingly visit you each month, and explore bits that remain unexplored. Your friendliness, most visible in the co-journey of the mountains and river, seems to be out of a story. It has fabled proportions. In fact I have spoken so much about you to others that they have come to believe that you live in me. Which you do.

I guess it was not just about the mountains or rivers and waterfalls, nor just about the fellow-traveller, it was more about the peace, and losing connection with selfish circles of identities to be reunited with the self. You welcomed me with open arms I believed could only belong to Shah Rukh Khan in his movies. You resurrected me from painful tunnels and aching wells and gifted me a smile which I had forgotten I was capable of. I owe your generosity a grand thank you. And I couldn't have done so without this letter.

A flurry of words flying your way,
K.

Letter to Little Things

Little Things,

You are so little that I must attempt to point out who you are, for there is a big chance that even you are not aware of who you are, how great you are. You are the night that promises a delayed morning, you are the breakfast comprising the perfect gooey cheesy mushroomy omlette. You are the coffee that is served by someone else, yet, perfect in its black flavour. You are the outfit that suits smartly and the hair that is shining and wavey. And the like. You get it now, don't you? You are the air no one ever sees.

Little things, I know you are not used to being brought into public in this loving manner (because somewhere I am not used to too), but really, what would I be without you? The pair of very blue denim that fits like second skin, yet dazzles up a caressing white shirt on a day of wanting to appear special, the ear-rings which have the devil's detail of a hint of turquoise ornamenting the ordinary, the pickle which spices up a day of extreme dull weather, the clay cup holding the rain water mixed roadside tea, the dollop of butter generously patting a peasant's meal of rice and boiled potatoes -- you are everything that makes anything a something. Something special.

You are the smile that is shared on a mirror between the one who drives, and the one who rides, without one word exchanged in between. I have often failed to understand many great concepts of life, like how a bridge is made, or how curd is set, how thermocol is used for insulation and how, an entire film script is written down shot-by-shot. In those moments of mayhem, the affection a tolerant, understanding heart offers, is you. You are that which makes living bearably beautiful.

But most of all, you are great because you are not one, but many, which make you individual, together. You are the gesture of a friend leaving a tube on the other side so that I could avail mine earlier, you are the kindness that a friend packs in a brownie box, and when she fetches me dinner as I stay put inside a hotel room out of fear of dogs. You are stories told when demanded. You are the best thing in the world, the most precious. And if I am with someone it is because of you. If I am without, it is again you. You are the rain that reigns on the soul and melts the heart.

Of all things you are, you are hardly little,

K.

Letter to Microwave Oven

This is immense pressure -- using you to your extreme utility each demanding moment, seeing you past the fridge, and not writing to you. I can almost feel your eyes on me, sometimes accusing, sometimes puppying. So, right after the social media has finished reminding us that Sylvia Plath 'died this day', I write to you. I ought to, actually.

A very good morning, dear Microwave Oven,

Getting you into our family was a great achievement for me, do you remember? I was so happy to have saved enough to gift us all a bit of convenience. I was happier that unlike in other families mine didn't disapprove of your central hot topic of even heating, whether it is healthy or not. And I was happiest that you are so easy to use a kitchen appliance. Over a mentionably long period of time, you have come to fit to the bill. No longer the 'new one', you sit cushioned to serve.

On days that I (in my usual lost-in-the-working-of-things look) think of irrationally impossible to contain flow of thoughts as I stare into how you consistently go merrily round and round, each day, each second, I find myself caught between you and your competitor, the gas burner, sitting tight opposite you. And though I try and suppress, my bias towards you is visible. I guess it gave away the day I started making Maggi with you. What to do? Your compact reassurance is transmissible. I love it that you have the expediency of most things contemporary. It works to your advantage when people enter the meaningless mediation of radioactive rays versus fuel and money. 

But, most of all, I am writing this letter to you out of a camaraderie, rather than a sense of gratefulness. I understand how important your earlier version was to many mad women, the likes of Plath, in the legend of 'putting the head in the oven'. You are the domestic nuclear weapon one uses in defense when possessed, however briefly. You are the graphic idea that has permeated through lines of confessionals. You are the model of madness exercised in deliberation. Your innocuous presence reminds me of one of the many masks role-players put on. And sheds it to reveal wires capable of ghastly explosions. 

These are some of the things that cross my mind when I look at you, and into your monotonous merry-go-rounding of the cold food that you warmly make edible. These are few things that needed to be expressed to you, that I do know of your limitless capabilities. And though you and I both have come to understand that the fridge has received a fantastic letter from me, this is to ensure you that yours is no less. For it comes from a deep perception that defies understanding of a thing as it appears. It seeks to tell you that you are precious for what you are not too. 

In unmasked intimacy,

K.

Letter to February

Hi February,

I was in middle school when I had read a story entitled "The Twelve Months". I do not remember the details except for twelve men seated in the woods with names from January to December, and aging young to old. Their virtues were similarly declining too. Why I mention this, I don't know. I have a bias towards the months of October and December, and you have never been special in my life, except in the last year.

Yes, I have had many loves over an elongated feeling of time, of many kinds. Juvenile compulsions, movie-inspired, bored, daddy-like, committed, passionate. But the one from last year was rather dear (blush). I take the road to college in the morning which has a fond February memory of a car ride to see the first yellows on fading winter trees. The punctuated oranges on the brazen roads had seemed like they were in a conspiring urgency of decking up a bride. I smiled this morning at that crossing of memory, wondering if it is yours too. I smiled further realizing I do not wish to know. I am happy to sometimes cuddle in the thought of your unexpected showers of kindness.

You unveiled your days into afternoons and nights of well-loved togetherness. You revived the teenage tingling excitement of being part of a 'secret'. I wished you never ended. But you did. As the radio sells the air-time of love, I smell some in the air too. Strange, strong, believable self-love. Something which I had lacked all my life. It is an entry level sad smell which makes its way to that of hopeful contentment. It is a composite smell of all such loves that made you a month of expectations, so long. It is a smell that redefines you as a month regeneration.

I think I will make you third in my list of favourite months. I still get to have oranges, you see. Oh, but you have competition from June, when the monsoons raise the curtains.

A lack of loquacious love brings me here,

K.

Letter to my Car

Dear Car,

Eons ago, I used to dream about you. Strangely, even when my imagination could be at its wildest best, I did not conceive you as someone flashy. When I decided to have you, choosing your colour was the most difficult part -- more than the how-would-I-manage-a-loan part. And quite naturally I settled for the unassuming stardust scheme of things. Layman's language for you is 'grey'. But their association with that word is not something I approve of. They say you are dull, and boring, and appear oldish. Laymen. What do they know of stardust?

This is going to be the only letter which I promise to take a printout of, and self-deliver (in the glove compartment). Since a long time I have deliberately overlooked the fact that I could not overhear you discussing wanting one from me, with your friends. I knew there will be a time, like there is always a right time for everything. Well, sorry today is your day. Sorry, that I hurt you. And sorry, that I delayed. But because I hurt you, I believe this letter is going to remain as special as a healer. 

I will start off by apologizing (again), because hurting you today could have been avoided. I was too consumed with doubts and other worldlinesses to not pay heed to your seeking for my attention. I did start taking you just as an extension of my reflexes and responses. I should not have. The scratches on you (I hate the garage gate) feel like someone just clawed my thumping heart and left it exposed and vulnerable to any kind of further movements. I am too ashamed to face it. I am too hurt too.

And thus, I hope this letter will embalm your pain. This letter wants to be that nutrient which would be a never ending supply to your confidence, for that is what you gave me in this short span. You empowered me with mobility, which was so long an impediment to many of my plans which did not get executed just for the lack of enthusiasm. You have been the reason I have been tolerant and forward looking, the reason for me to introspect and learn of new beats, the reason I began to persevere. You are my favourite toy, that which enables me, and excites.

Like the fuel that runs you, you are mine. Forgive me for all the times that I take you on rough rides. I believe you can sail through the toughest. As we sleep tonight, one wall apart, know that the wall is only physical. Each bit of my being is with you, because, somewhere they owe you their being.

Driven by your love,

K.

Letter to the Mountains

Hi!

I wish I could fiercely believe that you were impatiently waiting for this letter. Everyday that I drive to and from my workplace, I tune in to the radio diligently and the headless words find their way into my head. They are claiming it to be the month of Love. Such a well thought of commodity. Last year, this time was different. You had already happened. Actually, to think of it, you had happened some years back. On that flight to Delhi where we crossed a vast expanse of unending you. They called you the Himalayas. I was sure you saw me, me on the other side of that ant-sized window. Complete with shock, awe and silence. Love at first sight, one would say. At least from my end. That was the beginning.

I do not claim to have loved you from births before, or from geography text books. I do not claim to immediately differentiate one of your angles from the other by names assigned to you. I do not, like informed friends, know statistics that define you. I just know that your endlessness does not nauseate me the way that of the sea does, and that, dearest, is very, very kind of you. I also know there is something karmic about our relationship. Your solid strength came upon me when I was at my deepest low.

It is not only a memory, seeing you in many hues. Those were moments I have lived my barest, fullest. You and the sky, making sometimes gentle, sometimes wild love with each other. Colours came alive like from a magician's wand. You and the roads, in a cemented friendship. You and the river, in a soul companionship. You and me, and the smiles we have shared, and the tears we could not explain, it could only be your heightened magnitude shadowing my emotions. Water colour of streaming consciousness.

Last year, when you compelled me to return to you twice after the first time, I knew it was special. It was not just the excitement of building stories around sleeping gods, it was also not just the pristine view, it was something deeper. And then there were those irrational, unexplained outpour of emotions which I can never come to terms with. You are the most majestic of all landscapes that stand tall on the face of this earth. You have unfolded in me a capacity to be in a relationship with you, which we lesser mortals may loosely term, long-distance. I take time to understand your music, your poetry. I am mostly captivated by your very presence -- snowcapped, stubbled, serene. Devastatingly beautiful. In fact to put into words what I go through is near impossible. It is as if I have always belonged. To you. And each time your embrace melts my soul.

I do not know which part of you this letter will find, and how. I do not know what one expresses in a letter to the mountains. All I know is I will return to you, regularly, and that I had to tell you this. For, I believe you were quite charmed yourself by the innocent adolescent screams I let out in delight at your sight. And badly wished to comfort me when I cried. I will let you.

Coming soon,
K.

Letter to my Daughter II

Hello Curl Queen,

This is typical of daughters, actually of anyone, to be jealous. Letters to you undergo such intense travel to reach you that I wish I were a letter. Sweetheart, Chhuti is not just your friend, she is mine too, and remember she has been my lifeline at times unfathomable. Don't you care for poor mommy enough to be a little tolerant towards her? You certainly do not believe that mommy doesn't know that you become uptight when I write her a letter too many?

Pssstt: A secret -- you look cuter when your cheeks blush with red anger when I say, "Would you like a Blackforest, Chhuti?"

Child, I have to assure you (and it stays documented) that mothers are generous enough to love a couple of beings as much as their children, and at rare times even more, but that is what makes them human too. Haven't you known the love I beget from DB? If her sons were to compete with me, they would lose by miles, but love, love and competition do not exactly go hand in hand. I love you Chinks, and I would repeat it till my last breath (technically thus having the last word) that I have loved you from when you were not, and that promotes you to a place which is unreachable. Do not aspire love in measures and in comparisons, it belittles the feeling. It is uninspiring.

Come, let us imagine a cozy car. Imagine mountains that you can see outside the window. Imagine them on a dark, scary night. Imagine the extreme cold that cannot be contained by woolly gloves and furry caps and sexy socks. It is then that clinging on to little Chhuti's little hands in a tight clasp would give you a warmth that no inner, or warmer can provide. Don't fight so much that she is not the shoulder you can rely upon when in dire need of one, like your mommy does. Her shoulders may seen fragile and tiny, but they have the power to upturn storms. Here, you have no choice but to believe me. Serious belief. 

So love, shrug off that jealousy. It is not a happy thing to have around. Think for a moment. What does it do? What can it fetch? It only makes you unhappier. And Chinks, like mommy, you are as lazy. It would do you no good to keep a grudge. Have an ice-cream instead. With Chhuti, and me. That orange flavour of the candy would be dripping with joy when you share a laugh along. What would Christmas be without her? What would Saturdays be without her? What would walls be without her and you colouring them up?

Be a friend, Chinks, share, care, love. You will not know the importance of Chhuti unless you don't have her (and God forbid such a day ever comes).

And, Mommy loves you.

Madly.

Letter to Chhuti V

Chhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuttttttttttttiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii :) 

Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming to me in that tiny punch of a thing that you are. Elders would say you are stubborn, more sophisticated people would say your mother raised an adamant you, but me, I reiterate that your assertion is worth marveling at. I am fascinated with the prospect that we would be travelling, just when I was thinking we wouldn't be able to. God, I am so excited that the words are not following my instructions.

I want to write to you about how we will breathe in the air to fill in our souls to last the rest of the semester until another trip beckons, but I would rather pamper you this Saturday with a sound sleep and respect your strength of character. Something about you often enables me to feel strong from within. I guess it is your unassuming simplicity, or your compelling sweet nature which makes it necessary that you can't be ignored, or avoided. Poetry ain't my cup of Darjeeling tea :)

I find it absolutely adorable that you have weaved your way into my life in a manner that is beyond beautiful. The very essence of it is a reason for which I live. You. I often share with friends that in my next life I would be born a Princess just so as to be in a perennial you, with you. They reply I would then not regard your importance like I do today, but Chhuti, some people are born to enjoy doing nothing. To seep in everything around, to absorb and reflect.

Saturdays shouldn't be spent reading letters, go out, play, have a late bath, watch cartoons, colour, scream, sing, sleep.

Some people are born to love you enough to spoil you, period.
K.

Letter to Chhuti IV

Hi Chhuti!

I badly wanted to write a letter to a someone rather than a something, and I couldn't think of anyone better than you. Chhuti, there can be no straighter, shorter and better way of putting it across -- I miss you. I long to have you in my pocket and heart and clinging on to my hands with your little palm and travel with me in exciting flights and long trains and new roads.Yes, I want to travel. Back to the mountains, the unending uneven roads, the lovely greens, and to show you the beauty of a misty conversation. I can visualize it, you, engulfed in the simple great wonder of the bellowing clouds of words emitting from your mouth. Or designing on the end bread bit of the burger with sauce, mustard and tomato, a moustache over a smiley, while the hot chocolate you were having left a creamy one on you.

Chhuti, where are you? We need to plan our itinerary and live this moment of extreme yearning. My committed black American Tourister duffel bag needs to get a dash of terrace sun, and the zestful green Reebok utility pouch refilled. I have a lot of options for a handbag this time around, and would love your expert opinion on which would best suit this trip. You know T, right? She wishes to join us too, and though she seems a little serious to you, she is fun. Well, she would certainly be the one who would indulge you to have that extra slice of pastry. The teacher that I have never been to you, will be her.

And then when we board the train, or flight or take the road I want to be your assurance when you clutch my hand tightly. But everything is such a fancy delight of moments without you. Chhuti, time seems to be just a series of complains of not having you. I long to time travel and make the most of all the afternoons I whiled away in serious procrastination. At this given moment if I were asked to ask for anything, it would be you. Armed with you I would get on with the busy being of planning a trip, buying tickets, booking rooms and generally genuinely being very happy about it all.

Little details like fueling the collection of songs in my mobile phone, and from when to keep the data pack off, such would be the chaos governing my life. And oh how I love it! It is any day better than hospital worries and attendance discrepancies, is it not?

I love you so much Chhuti. Why do you then evade me? It is a very sad thing to live you only in letters. But then, I couldn't have asked for anything better when there is absolutely no chance of having you otherwise. Read this, feel my earnest wish, pack your bags, and come along!

I know you want to, too,
K.

Letter to Kitchen Knife

Good Morning, dearest.

And surely, you didn't think you wouldn't receive one? Of certain things -- gathering dust or shining new, timelessly classic, crazily quirky or really blunt -- the sharp edge bit that makes me, me, is you. Earlier, I believed and accredited the onions to be so, kilos of chopping relieving me from many a situation -- whether embarrassing, or in an attempt to distance, or, to shed a private tear or two, unquestioningly. With age, however, it dawned that it was not the onions, rather it was the pleasure of chopping that came off you.

K (oh, we share the same initial for a name, how exciting!), I have to tell you, this is my third sitting down with your letter. Somehow, thinking of writing to you feels like a very geometrical, structured, designed compulsion, like the many slices, dices, rounds of chopping that have over the years found perfection. Come to think of it, my life has been quite like yours, at least how you are placed in my kitchen. The earliest memory of my identity was someone with a sharp tongue. I rather replace this word with verbosity now. And sad too, how you are only used as a sharp object. I cannot fathom why users fail to see you as this wonderful tool to ease out and beautify the things you touch. In fact that is also another thing I love about you. Touch. I adore the way you cuddle up to my palm, one with my soul, as if we are similar in our spirit. The touch of purpose that is invisible to the others.

Just to reduce you to your correct adjective of 'sharp' object is so wrong. You are so many possibilities, unexplored. People either do not exercise, or (I believe) do not even know how to exercise. You shape, you size, you simplify. How ethereal! And though, it is a general notion that you subtract, you are actually all about addition -- whether in dimension, or appearance. You add to a commonplace vegetable or a fruit, or dead meat its very approach and appeal.

I thank you profusely for allowing me to take care of you, and I particularly enjoy catching you blush when I know just when to dry wipe you instead of washing you unceremoniously. Let me let out a secret now. It is me too who enjoys this process of me-blushing you-blushing with you. You think I do not notice how you head up on a given day, and not hand-up, slightly, to catch my attention so as to use you? I do. I love it how you want me to complete you. I hear you, and though sometimes you hurt me too, it is only human that such tension exists.

Your friends and compatriots in other households are carelessly handled and more than you, I am glad you belong and are with me. I am a good friend. Thank you for being one of those rare ones who lets me feel and believe in it. And hey, do flaunt it with family that often we sing to each other! I know you want to.

PS: I hope you like the new cloth assigned to clean you. I took special attention to find one suited to the season.

Severe-ly yours,
K.