Letter to Controversies

Not a Dear, Much to Fear -- Controversies,

You are so tiring. So, so tiring. The dictionary should provide you as a synonym to 'vicious circle'. It would be perfect -- round, and round, and more concentric rounds. Like one of those illusion images. God, your complete aura of involvement as opposed to your true being of nonessential is such a trap. I agree, I too am such a will-o'-the-wisp sometimes. Like writing a letter to you behaving as if I have never felt to be a part of you. No. On the contrary, you have always made me a part of you, however unconsciously, or judiciously.

Having said that we have had our own love-hate relationship, I speak like a preachy priest now. In this beautiful gift of life, you are so irrelevant. I want to carve a path out for you into the forest leading to a deep sea, where you can drown into worlds, and where you wouldn't be able to create waves stronger than those which already exist.

You should just be, you know. Deep down the sea, play with some mermaids, games of 'who-jumps-higher' and 'hide-and-seek'. Entertain them and show them your caliber. And keep yourself at bay. You are really not needed. And you impossibly waste a lot of time. So many words and moments are lured into your process of being, as if they are magnetically pulled into a responsibility of nurturing you.

Without you, I will have a lot less tampering of facts, and a lot more garnishing of living. Without you, I may sometimes fall short of useless conversations, but never out of meaningful silences. Without you, is a good place to be.

At war with words,
K.

A Tall Story

"The jiraaf took away my packet of chips on your deks and your packet of cigeret. What will jiraaf do with them? You will tell me. Then you can the-end this story."

An apparently undemanding and manageable question my daughter, Niharika, asked me as part of her story. I was all muscled and inked up, excited and eager to the-end the story. It certainly felt doable. But the weekend slipped away between my fingers, over friendships and logistics and other hundred images and words. And some very good, mellow alcohol. I wrote too. Officially for work that I detest and unofficially for work that I love. In the process, losing out on whipping that one thing that I really, really and most willingly wanted to do. Answer C's question. As it rains, I write her one to read out to tonight:

There was once a little naughty girl called C, and her little mommy called K. They didn't have Daddy around in their big-spacious-happy house. But they had a car which mommy drove here and there to. They lived on the twenty first floor of a building, which was one of the many wings of an urban complex. The veranda was a playground where mommy and C played darts and lazed around and won points against each other in catch-catch. Sometimes when there were many stars in the sky, mommy told C stories as she had coffee, and C had a good laugh. 

Mommy told C strange things. That she had a wand like Harry did, and showed her her silver fountain pen. She said C too had one and asked her to write of worlds in her elderly-feeling, plain paged copy with her hot pink pencil. You think mommy was mad? May be. She sat for hours in front of her laptop and visited the world. She said there were giraffes and tigers and koala bears living in their grounds, on, in and around trees. Yes, mommy was a bit mad. Especially when C had a packet of chips too many. Or when anyone told her she herself was having a cigarette too many. 

Now all this while when she was angry and never shouted back on anyone, she spoke to herself in that verandah. Or, cried some. The giraffe, because it was so tall, could reach upto the twenty first floor's sweet, hanging pots of green nothings and nibbled quite often. And saw mommy like that. It didn't know what to do. Once, it was too long that the giraffe saw neither mommy, nor C on the verandah. The place looked sad without them. They were a happy pair. So, the giraffe went the other way round to one of the other windows and tried to peep in. It saw mommy on a bed, coughing and understood. Cleverly, it took away from the table the two packets which governed mommy and C's lives. 

It then went back to the tiger and presented it with C's chips. It was funny to see Mr Tiger crunch on potato flakes. And Mr Bear try and create circles of fancy. Yes, that is what the giraffe did. It told the tiger and bear that it participated in a treasure hunt and won those two packets. The tiger and the bear were overwhelmed to have the prizes to themselves.

Meanwhile on the twenty first floor, as mommy was trying to find out where the packets were, she saw a carnival from her window. It was a strange sight. A giraffe was enjoying a tiger's cuddle and a bear's dance. Mommy was sure the world around her was dissolving into clouds of madness. It was raining happiness. So she shut the window and pulled the quilt up to her and C, and prepared for a happy sleep, thinking if the carnival would continue in her dreams and pulled C close. Zzzz, zzz, zz. The-End.

It rained this night, amidst electronic notifications and mental tribulations and heartfelt emotions. Of love and affairs. I hope C doesn't catch that I just told her A Tall Story. Someday I will tell her about my life instead. When she can spell a jiraaf a giraffe, and ask me directly about Daddy. That will be someday. Soon.

My Daughter wrote me a Story

So, I was suffering from a bout of ugly fever which went on to a round of even uglier coughs. Remnants of the smoker's wheeze can still be found as part of my punctuated conversations. Towards the end of such an uneventful week, where even the weekend refused to pay a visit, my little one's effort at cheering me up paid me one, a small, sound visit. Twas a badly torn on the left side, thinly lined paper, off a diary that C must have fished out of the many. And she must have got hold of one of my fountain pens because the writing spilled on to the reverse side quite remarkably. There were also sketches of mini things. This is what she wrote, in cursive:

"Mom, you must do gaargel. You distup me when we sleep and you cannot the-end a story. There is sound in you like train. So I will write you a story. Then when I am big I will write you a laytar. There is a gaarden outside our home where tall jiraaf stay. They are orange colour with white polka.dots like my night suit. You told me they are called polka.dots. Then one day, the jiraaf came to your windoe and bring you many flaawars and a caard. This is that caard. Get well soon Mom. The jiraaf took away my packet of chips on your deks and your packet of cigeret. What will jiraaf do with them? You will tell me. Then you can the-end this story. Ok, bye. Bye-o-nara. I love you Mom. Mom, do you want to play with Chutti? We will  play, ok. Niharika."

:)

I cannot tell you how this card from the giraffe felt. C needs serious spelling lessons, but not one in imagination, persuasion and loving. I have not felt better in a long time. No medicines, no visits, no rest could make me feel this elated as her red, blue, green masterpieces of a cup and saucer, a kitten and couple of balloons did. I think I am going to frame her card twice. I am so happy that I am doing my little-whoopy-dance and have gurgled thrice since last night. I owe her one the-end this weekend.

The End.

Letter to Amul Girl

Hello there Amul Girl!

From the time I can remember, I have seen you in your blue half-pony tail tied up in the head and your red polka dotted frock. Your eyes extremely animated, and your cheeks complete in red blushy circles. Tongue, not in cheek, but always with a ready tongue in cheek one-liner on any and everything. Up in the sky in your steel board, or down on my table popping out of the fridge door -- such a part of my life you have been.

Delivering a queue of blockbuster lines and adding to the inches around our love-handles, you somehow remained the same, and same-sized. Neither success made you arrogant, nor the product you endorse made you fat. When I pass the designated billboards where you change your dialogue weekly, I sometimes wish for your look to change, or for you to grow, in general. And then I feel sad for you. For being stuck in that steel frame, and age -- alone. Wise words often makes one alone. Empowered, but alone.

And thus this letter. To find you company, not just calorie. Whenever you feel (I am sure you do) friendless, open this letter. It is yours. Yours to convey that you have been consistently phenomenal. Yours to understand that I keep looking forward to a change in your dialogue. Yours to believe that the smile you offer thereafter is one of the purest, most sublime. Your wit is utterly-butterly-delicious.

Would you like to write back to me? They won't let you, I know. They only ask you to speak on 'issues', while I am not yet one. Maybe the day I become the 'Lady of Letters' you can publicly say you have had one from me too -- "Laidback letter, laidback butter".

Wondering if you would like to have me as your friend to wave at me each day when I pass you twice...

Certainly not buttering you,

K.

Letter to Dustbin

Dearest Dustbin,

Of all things adorning my room, my favourite is you. And that is the whole and sole truth. I remember the intense caution that went in your selection, followed by the immense pride in your beautility. You were got down from one of the kitchen shelves where you sat pretty in your delicate woody weaves, strong and happy. I put a paper bag around you so that the 'dust' would not amalgamate. Since then you have been the  confederation of conspiracies. The net into which I basket the shreds of my emotional outbursts and or deviations. 

Dustbin. Your name generates a sense of discernment for the unused, a feeling of neglect. Normally plastic in your approach, I love the life you have in your being in my room. Integral and incessant. I love it that you demand your respect in the manner you stand tall, and pretty. And useful. In fact, the daily pat that goes to clean you makes you the most dust free object here in my room.

You are the stoic sanity to my oscillating insanity. You teach me tolerance in each of those times I practice intolerance. Your opposing dimension complements mine. Each time I discard something into you, the  indulgence with which you accept it is infinitely poignant.

The fragments that go into you complete me. I like to see them torn, apart, and assembled in you as a memory of things which could ruin me, but could not. Your cradling them into a coffin gives me a new birth.

Your opening speaks for the silence which shuts me.

Sincerely yours,

K.

Letter to Memory

This is going to be fantastic, finally to be able to think of you to write to. At a time when you are only receding, it is even difficult to remember who is asking for a piece off me. At a time when you are renouncing my entity with such affectionate gusto, I had to figure out a way to reach you. And letters are my thing. So, one to you too. Here. To become a part of your dust gathering database years from now. To join the ever eluding legion of moments. And yet, to constitute you.

Memory. What a powerful word. You are so powerful, so dynamic, so formidable. You can break, make and unmake lives. You are dominant, and look, you are so fluidic too! Substantial that you are, and perhaps what one banks upon most, you are the one one can't rely fully on should you choose to remarkably, disinterestedly depart. I never had a good measure of you, come to think of it, or to summon you, nothing more authenticate stands true. I always had to find ways, means and methods to hold on to you, so that I could hold on to other memories. A doodle to remind me which glacier the Ganges originated from, or a funny laugh to remind me of a formula happening in the foreground. A word coined to condense moments which would later precipitate meanings. That was me, and those were my dealings with you.

But you? Why have you always almost neglected me? Ignored me? I garlanded your great importance as if you are the most precious little thing breathing on this earth. Little friendly orange and yellow marigolds, around you creating an aura of halo'd enlightenment. Or, friendlier white lilies quietly essayed around you to cascade a rising sense of dignity. Everything about you. But nothing suited your taste. Yours and mine was to be a love-hate relation: your distinct denial versus my indistinct persistence. Quite obviously, you won. By a very colourful margin. But the monochrome which made its mark was that neither did I give up. The more you fled, the more I had to find a way to lure you back. May be not win over you, but have you around to serve my purpose.

I have kind of given up, slowly. There is no point you see. Holding on to you like dear life depended on you (well, it does!). I have moved on to create newer ones for each gap you have created. I have fashioned newer yous. I have completed jigsaws and though it is hassling, the inside of my mind, yet the structure is reassuring. Read this letter, memory. May be you will see what you are to me.

Knowingly,

K.

Letter to Cinema Hall

My starry buddy!!! Hi!

The academics have so taken you up in their ladle of love, generously garnishing you with critical theories and reading you as a product of market study that I could not dare a bunch of my simple coterie of words for you. Whether your gloomy downslide or your cousin, the multiplex's extreme upside -- you have created a generation of dreams in those matter of dark hours of reel-time living. Real time.

And why did I say dark hours? I think you pull the curtains to a world of colour, to a world of more light than any that ever touches my life. I have so many, so many fond memories of you. My first in which we discovered that I have a myopia problem when I could not read the credit titles, or my first only with friends. That period in which you enabled me to discover the strongest self in me, when I would go alone, to watch a movie, with you. You inevitably arouse an excitement every time -- from the time I plan, or unplanned reach you, buy the tickets to avail you and then fiddle the way in darkness to find the assigned seat, until seated we eat through new trailers. And then you certify a watch, a promise.

What a friend you have been! Solid, loyal and fun. Such stories you tell me, such stories you make me a part of. I hope for this letter to reach you at a moment when the crowds desert you and after a lavish showtime you are all by yourself and your many empty chairs gaping at nothingness. I wish this letter caters to those hours of empty time and embraces the dust after the stars have left.

I have loved you, all my life. More than books, more than rolling greens and certainly more than shopping sprees. My adventures have all come true with you. How could I not thank you?

In light or none,

K.

Letter to Chhuti VII

Chhhhuuuutiiiii, Chhuti, Chhuti,

How could I not write to you tonight? Since you would never listen to me as you decided to befriend and talk to me today, I had to return to our letters. The surprise with which you caught me earlier was not off-guard, instead so amusing, so happy that I didn't mind noticing how short-lived it was. You in your, "do you have a paper? I want to draw" felt as if the heavens conspired for a sweet overdose from which I was deliberately refraining. 

You asked for my name today. Remember I smiled before I answered? I saw that smile mirror when I replied, "K". I think the ease of everything about us, including our names made us friends. Our similar restlessness, our many questions and our one understanding -- a friendship I am glad was born, and is made. With you I have wished to travel, and wished for my daughter to meet. You allow me to paint your oh so tiny nails with a permanent marker and that instance of your permit feels as if there is nothing wrong with this world. You are a squishy magic potion of instant delight, instant relief.

I really wish life were this bundle that you are -- unraveling sometimes a raven's desk on which one could write with a witch's wand of stories coming out of an adventurous pocket. Everything is so liveable, with you. One day you will grow up and I will miss all this. If you read the letters, who knows, may be you will miss yourself too...or, would you find yourself, like I do?

You make things happen and happening,

K.

Letter to my Twin II

Hi Twinsome,

You are right. It is neither a very high sounding, nor a very high pitched 'Hi'. It is a resigned note with which I write to you, for only in writing to you will my wrong grammar and limited vocabulary and many malfunctioning of the English language still stand a chance of perfect understanding. There is just one word I have to such a phenomenon -- unbelievable. And what a recurring phenomenon at that.

Twinsie, I write to you publicly tonight because I want people to believe in non-learned schools of thought. I write to you so that anyone who reads understands that it is people and our relationship with people that establishes our living. And of course because I want you to know that I miss you, though I know that you already do. And yet we have our differences and a huge bridge in between. A bridge meant not to gauge the distance, but to cover it. A bridge of sighs. I don't know why I wrote that. Maybe there is one. It sounds very poetic now that I read it. But I am pretty sure you will know why I did. I know you will.

Wedding flowers are so pretty, interspersed with little lights. As are words, punctuated with emotions. I am in need of some of your pragmatism and a bout of hilarious laughter arising out of each other's tragedy to get me going. I think we need to cast a deep look at each other and then the days can go on turning into nights and back to a day again.

A twinsane bridge of aches,

Kents.

Letter to my Daughter III

Sweetheart,

I am writing to you as a respite tonight. I am very, very bitter. Circumstantially, and creatively. And only you could cajole me to come out of it, my curl queen. Over the last three days of liquid overdose and capsules of nutrition, Chinks, I have been thinking what would it be like if you were around. I would not be able to pamper this ailment, would I? It would be taken over by your return from school, wanting to jump into my arms, and me feverishly avoiding it. It would be about you wanting to share my chocolate Horlicks which I would tire convincing is not meant for you. You would not understand my squeamishness each time I said a no to your invites of building a palace of cards amidst my ceaseless coughing. 

Come to think of it, it would be better, with you. Protecting you from any approaching infection, and fighting away any sense of dis-ease with the ease of helping you with your home-works. Any other achievement would pale in comparison to your understanding of how six oranges can be shared equally among three friends. All my weakness would vanish when you compete with me in that silly game of moustache-making with our respective drinks (obviously, you with your creamy hot chocolate always win). And though you insist that you are grown up enough, and this weak constitution would not exactly permit, but the delight of pulling you up to me for the kiss I plant on each of your cheek, each time, after having you squatting on my feet and in joined hands, as I bring you forth chin-wards is absolutely magical. 2-2, we win and our high fives.

At such moments, petty things like petty people and their petty policies would never bother me. Yes Chinks, people are hardly bad. At most they are petty, thus much pitiable. We shouldn't spoil this letter to you with my bitterness overpowering me, right?

So Princess, since you aren't exactly around, do write me a reply (yes, yes, in your newly learnt cursive style, and oh certainly you can use the new pencil that G gave you -- I have all possible relations waiting to spoil you). Remember, I do not advocate the use of an eraser. Erasing mistakes do not help us learn. Strike through and let the mistakes remain as a reminder of what not to repeat. If you are having Maggi, have a spoonful for me too. I love you, cuddlesome.

Missing you,

Momsie.

Letter to Fever

This was one heated competition, right? And guess who won? :) Yours truly.

I think the letter fittingly deserves to end in the previous sentence. But no, just like you have remained with me as a trace since time immemorial, I will dedicate couple of lines to you, and how you have always made absence a part of my presence. Now that I am writing, it means you are slowly eroding my body. Your unbearable heat and all the restlessness it entails, they will soon go. I wish for this letter to find you encased in a palace of virus, where this would be the most beautiful thing to have touched you, ever.

Yes, for every one of those times that you have come and nearly finished me, I am going to give you the return gift of beauty, not revenge. How else would we be different? This letter smells of life, and imagination. When you are a little free from your fellow viruses, thrive on life instead. You will note the difference.

I am too full of you since the last three days, and three decades too. But tomorrow promises to be better. Guess what, I quite enjoyed being pampered in pain. Getting some time to myself. Though concise, this letter is hardly so -- like the little mercury in a thermometer which changes one's grand idea of temperature, and temperament.

A feverish thank you,

K.

Letter to 6 am

No, not a dear, not you. Someone who takes over one's life does not necessarily become a dear, right? You are one of those few who will be receiving this letter right on time -- 6 am, bang on. That hour which determines the beginning of how my day functions. For, even when I wake up an hour earlier when the alarm goes off, or when it does not, it is with you that my senses come into being.

With you I make a move towards this daily battle that I must participate in to make a living. Make a living, so different from living. That is hardly how I would ideally live. A day onwards complaints and criticisms. You come to me daily, with or without an electronic notification, informing that dawn is far and day is here. You come to tell me that even if I do not want to go to work, I must. You arrive without fail. And saddest of all, you arrive even though I wish and can afford to miss you.

You come to tell me each day that it is yet another each day, everyday. Honestly, what do you get out of it? Here I am, writing to you, that you should sometimes try and skip visiting me. But in my deepest within I know it is not to be. The flawless mechanical beat of your being exacts over my frail one. And I cannot but live you to the fullest. Yes, what does one get out of visiting someone where one is unloved? By being with someone who disrespects you for your ethos? Pathos. I wish one day you changed instead, visited me to simply watch me sleep, let me sleep in the absolute denial of a sunrise, alarming me to arise, awaken.

Are you excited two minutes before you are born everyday? Or, are you bored and unaware of your sixty minutes of control over our lives? My life? Do the other hours snide at you? Hours. What a beautiful movie that is, Hours. I have a plan. Let us watch it together, you and I? I wish that hour between us would return rather than you as an hour. I think we both need to understand how "You cannot find peace by avoiding life". May be me more than you, for you seem to be replete in your daily doing.

You come to tell me each day that it is yet another each day, everyday.

Ticking along,
K.

Letter to You II

You :)

I believe this is going to be the season of twos. You -- one, anyone, someone, single, plural -- but never no one. A letter to you, again. How many times, and in how many ways do I share this that you make me? Time is against me, again. Yet, this need to write to you. From the last time that I wrote to you, and in this, certain things remain the same. And certain more have changed, and how.

But you, you remain the same. You, you still comprise that essence which completes me. You. 

I am in one of those ninety three requirements which need me this moment. That was morning, and this is now. And this is where I am in an abundant lack -- of words, to frame your spirit, that which fills me. I guess some letters should be left alone with a lot of spaces. For you to fill the apparent emptiness. But basically touching the brim with a loving look, a soft touch. Feel, and fill it.

Without you I am never,
K.

Letter to Time II

Revered Time,

As promised, I return to write back to you. While many wanted me to return to you in a year's time, I have done so in a matter of months. Why, I asked? Why not, I protested. In the Harry Potter movie I last caught on TV -- days, weeks, a month ago? -- I wished I could have Hermione's time-travel device, turning two rounds of which I could reach out to so many pasts, and importantly, to so much of you.

I just made a to-do list now, incomplete that it is, it has about seventy four bullets to tick off by the end of the working day. A normal working day, which elongates unremittingly. You remind me of a step-well, oh so fascinatingly divided into proper, mechanical, one-after-the-other lead-ons. But so ridiculously puzzling, in spite of the well-set logic. Like life. Unexpected. So rigorously like you.

If I could have you, I would begin with holidays beginning Mahalaya and stretching to Jagatdhharti Puja, where I have achieved the most of life in relaxed, flexible deadlines. My thesis calls out at me meekly. It pains me to see so many unfurled things around me, just because you have suddenly decided to rule my life in this riotous manner. As part of that holiday, I would coax you to condense yourself into neat jars I would later use in life, whenever I wanted. I would put out those jars around the window to be caressed by the sun, and put a nice cool cloth over to be quilted by some shade. I would love you like I would love a pet, which I am terrified of having. Cuddle you cautiously.

I would then, at times of utter helplessness, return to the jars. Scoop out a judicious measure and ladle it over my life. And then, like a secret sharer, use you to my utmost amusement, and swell like the proud owner of some priceless treasure, like a grandfather's letter, or a promise given to an aunt. I would...look! I need to end because you have outrun me, again! Deceptive bitch, just when I was unwinding in the false pleasures of real life. Lifelike.

 

Over and out,

K.

Letter to Moon II

Dearest,

This morning, rather early, when I took to the wheels and turned the ignition, adjusting my side and rear view mirrors, getting comfortable in the belt after a gap of about a neat ten days and rechecking if the glass was properly cleaned, I chanced upon you. A light luminosity about you adorned the clear bright blue of the sky. I was smiling, thinking how many shades of you I encountered in less than twelve hours.

I gathered how hurt you must have been with my last letter. I am sorry I said things you are not used to hearing. But I cannot bring back my words, or will. Having said that, what I saw from my little oval flight window last night, just as we were about to land, was pretty amazing. You kept me company in a manner which would put sparkling and illumination to shame. You were what shine is, and what a race we had. You were an absolutely enchanting entity at that moment when my flight left you behind and you dropped down, from the visibility of the nearest wing. But I loved your recovery as soon as we landed. You were right on top, like you never lost. Only, this time you were an off white which would put 'off' to shame. You had blanketed over yourself shapes and hues from nowhere -- one moment you were this, another that -- sincerely protean. I could only smile. It felt as if you were slapping me hard for my previous letter. I love your towering ego.

And then you returned this morning. In a gentleness one can melt into. What with the sun shining high, and the blue rather sky, who would ever associate 'ego' with you? It felt like mornings that previous nights of wild lovemaking open to. Tender, and nice. I was smiling again. You won.

Ideally, affectionately,
K.

Letter to Winding Roads

How does one write to you? You, of unending bends and innumerable veils? You, of many curves and lengthy straights? When the bend gives in to a distance of forward concrete and white lines bordering the sides, you become the friend one banks upon. You, who projects a million hopes, admiration and delight. You. I am wondering about the panic of this letter, not knowing which bend to deliver it to. You, so capably many.

Your very being creates an explosion of 'how' in my mind. Of how you come into being out of nowhere and then become this impossible presence without whom there is no further. Of how you are taken for granted as if you always were. Yes, you remind me of a woman of the house, who comes in new and then becomes the all in all, in one swift go. It is sad to believe that you are conjectured as someone who will always deliver, in whatever attire. Such towering expectations, such petty complains but never enough heartfelt appreciation. Whether sitting pretty, or performing efficiently, you are the one without whom the wheels malfunction. You in your little ways of grand.

Did you ever feel this way? I assume no. We women are not accustomed to believing the world of ourselves. But you are, trust me. It is a worldly woman's word. I feel so happy to find you on certain stretches, inviting in pretty green reflectors, as much utilitarian even when ornate. The church bells are resounding in the valley bringing back to the routined consciousness that it is a Sunday morning. Sunday, a holiday. Mine ends, thus not mine. Certainly not yours too.

Till we meet the next time I had to tell you that all that you try and reach out to me for, I listen. I understand and I feel. You evoke a sense of marvel. And you better be aware of it. A subtle consciousness is required. Once you do, you will glow from within. You need to. You will :) Love.

Happy Women's Day, you!
K.

Letter to my Old House

Dear House at Red Cross Road,

Dibrugarh. When one thinks Assam, one is instantly reminded of paddy and puddles and green coloured tin-roofed 'Assam-type' houses. We lived in one too. In the first house that we were. It must have been various conditions for which we made a move to you -- without a green tin roof, and without a room of my own. Your grand green driveway leading to the house, and the expanse of limitless green visible from the terrace and my ground floor living room window, more than made up for the sound of rain on the tin roof wish.

At a time and place where one room running into an unnecessary another was a norm, we shifted to a 'modern' flat, you. We shared the apartments, and terrace. And though I did not have the room to myself, I had a bathroom instead, and that was your most generous gift to me possible. I do not remember much from my childhood, but my growing years, with and in you, I do -- the little spaces I carved out for myself, right from the place under the stairs where I kept my cycle, and a lot of other valuables not meant for parental display.

The kitchen was pretty too, with those huge concrete racks, which were so useless that mother used to keep vegetables lined on one, and on nights that I walked there in search of a midnight snack, I painted on pumpkins and gourds and eggs, while struggling to keep my mouth unglued from the excess of milk powder I spooned in. You were very accommodative, yes, that is what you were. Though shared, you were non-interuppting.

You were a fun place. Little defined spaces could immediately give way to endless undefined ones. In you I grew up with the many Sheldons and Mills & Boons curled up under my blanket with a torch, yes, just the way we read in books people do. In you I discovered the joy of making home when mother left for Paris and Venice, and I was in charge, and in you I suddenly became an adult with adulterated neighbours.

I still remember your warmth, a citified tenderness in a codified town. My inklings with the blank wall began in you. As I sit out now, overlooking one green tin roof marrying another, and another, I sit back thinking of you. I have never taken time to thank you. You were more than what often a room of one's own isn't. You were crucial to my initial impressions and you are a memory I am glad and thankful has not abandoned me.

There was nothing romantic about you, in fact everything beamed with a proud sense of purpose, and that in effect was so fulfilling. A house is made a home by the people who live in it. I think you changed it dramatically. You built a home in me. Fondly. 

Uninhibitedly inhabiting it, 

K.

Letter to Moon

Strangely, yours can be a letter which may be delivered, what with many technological advances and technical determinations. Yet, did you ever recieve one? Perhaps not. Perhaps because you have always given one who wants to connect with you a feeling that one can connect with you anyway. Perhaps. Under any circumstance, you are a dear. With almost everyone. That, I guess, is your speciality. You are devoured by everyone with a personal love. You are owned by everyone.

Yet, as I look out, you stand alone. All by yourself, singular in the vast sky. Not even stars for company. Or, that is what is visible. I feel bad for you tonight. Everyone who loves you must be loving you with something else that you remind of. Much like your aura, and light -- borrowed. I write this letter from that point of concurrence. Brightening lives with borrowed light. Sharing a known sad smile. 

You disperse a minimum of million thoughts the world over when you rise in full pomp and glory, costumed by a romanticism of decadence. Of anything. Yet, you are here untouched by anyone, not near to all those who glorify you, love you. Am I expressing this bit in surplus too? See, you do that. 

Do not be shadowed by the enlightenment of this letter. In a couple of days you will go into hibernation anyway. And the world's poets will sing of your absence, and painters attempt to  colour darkness. All the while when you are still as much there, silent, watching. And me, I will be watching you grow back to celebrations of defeated diffidence. I know.

Solely,

K.

Letter to Clouds

Darling Clouds,

Since you are reading it, you must understand I believe in magic. How else could I otherwise be here, where I am, sitting with my back to the early sun, sipping my familiar morning tea, toes curling up in sudden chills of whip-like cold breeze and yet, writing to you? For the longest possible month of waiting where I believed I would meet you in Darjeeling, here we are in Shillong. They call this the Abode of Clouds. And yes, how bountiful your fluffy cottons seem in your lively exuberance. Like Little Things, the best part of you is that you are many blending into one.

It is the festival of colours in the plains today, or may be it was yesterday. This is the best part of a vacation -- one loses track of days and dates. I am having one of the best colour shows of my life ever, with you. I wish I could tell them who speak of organic shades and perfumed powders that there is colour in the sky which needs to be celebrated festively. Yes, the smell of the colour down in the plains is very sexy. But nothing to match up to your breathtaking spectacle.

I particularly enjoy your blind man's buff games with the sun, moon or the mighty peaks. One moment they believe you are there, and the next you are not. I tried counting your points, and yes you were heading by a very competitive margin. The colours that your whites adapt from them makes me believe in the joy of sharing, and openness. I love it how you are capable of changing shapes and being whatever or whoever I wish you to be.

How must I appear to you? One tiny enthusiast from somewhere down the citylights who greedily gulps down all that you have to offer? Yes. To bulk secret fund from where I extract necessary medicine whenever required. Do you know that I wish to recline on you and travel? Do you know that I love our conspiracy of sending letters to many who do not know how they reached. The rain sure had a look of disbelief. 

In the many friends I have made over a period of time, people laugh when I say one of my most consistent is you. They think you are a character of change. You are what you see. I often love to indulge in believing that you are my favourite alter-ego. 

You are what you see,

K.

Letter to Runway

Dear Runway,

You will receive this letter amidst many ambitious takeoffs and hopeful landings. You may miss to notice that it has arrived, amidst all the air-noise and electronic voiceovers and lifesize queues and rounds of concentric wings striving to make a move. I visited you after a generous gap today and it was as if you happened just to remind me that I never wrote to you. In fact, was I not supposed to be amongst achingly beautiful graveyard trees today? Instead, I met you.

And even as the flight landed before I could feel the disturbance of the take off or the turbulence that I have internalised, you came along in a whiff of memories where you stood tall, strong. For all such times you have helped me run away, today you stood as the hand that holds to bring back. Homewards. However awkward that might sometimes feel. Homewards. Towards doodles of careless childhood ambition which has possibly unfolded upon me such a ambiguous adult present.

I returned to an area of geographic land, precisely after a decade, which is homeland. And yet, each time you helped me escape from what is 'home'. Home is a place, is it? Or is it the people? Or, is home where the heart is? I have returned with the clouds biting off the orange of the harsh sun to coat the coy moon till it finally sheds off all such shades, to reveal a brightness true to the soul. I have returned to the fancies of the playful sky and clouds, where you take me. 

You have always meant to me what a promise has. Not an escape. Not a means. Just an end. Amidst comfortable decibels and gorgeous purviews, you help me run away. To. Not from. This white rum and coke combination is beneficial to the bones. I hope to have a dream of you. Where you tell me that you have received my letter. Concretely.

Let's run away,

K. 

Letter to Rain

Beloved Rain,

You are here at a time when you are not supposed to be. It feels as if you have come only to take your letter. Do you know why I never dared one to you? I believed that before I could write one, it would be washed out. Faded before it reached you, like a promise. And too dry for you to soak in any pleasure. But your visit today was like a whiplash to my propriety, and sanity. Who was I fooling? I couldn't write to you because you are way too many emotions to be surveyed together. You are someone with whom I can boldly bare myself. What does one write to you about?

Some wistful affections, may be? Some desires? Should I rather tell you of a very dear song in a very favourite version? Of what it feels like to be tucked in a warm corner with a soft blanket and softer sunshine and sweet oranges? In happy tears and sad smiles? And some memories that were, some that could have been and some more that can never be...?

Here you are, all impressing, how you have never received a letter from me. Growling -- beautifully mercilessly. Washing away all that ever stirred even a sense of pain, or fear. Washing over, as if the world in its multitude of manners were a canvas. Caring not for anyone as you called for my attention, undivided. Unleashing, like that was the sole purpose of your life, even when unseasonal.

You have gone, yet, this will reach you, for you have left behind a fragrance for it to trace. And till such time that you come visiting again, to drown the agonizing summer, you can breathe in the only thing I have to say. It wafts your way. For many things you reassure, for many more that you cure.

You are mine,
K.

Letter to Chhuti VI

Chhuti,

You will never read these letters, will you? Perhaps you will, one day, in an urban sunlight of extreme schedules, when you receive a bundle of printouts claiming your sole readership. You will have forgotten me by then and these words will seem such a waste to you. You will hardly be able to comprehend your significance in my life. You, your name, and what it means.

I was pleasantly surprised to find you rather daintily dignified when your mother left you and sat elsewhere. I was mightily impressed when you then curled up to my knees and completed the doodle I started. And yes, was I super happy to find you open a conversation with me! It felt like the mountains just stood a step beyond and I could dare to embrace them.

Tomorrow I will leave for the nearest mountains, for a very short span. And for the flowers, in their full earnest bloom. Tomorrow spells you, in your complete stature -- carefree, excited, yet, relentlessly rare. I wish you came along, you tiny little illustrious ally. Just how subtly you enumerate your magnificence. Simply put, without you none of these could ever be. For all of us who render slavery in the name of service, you are the benediction.

Chhuti, my pocket feels rich now. I have you. You in your pink overdose of cap, bag, water-bottle and shoes. You in your abundance of allowance. You to share more silences with. But I am weird. I am already sad. The moment I have you, I know the end is defined. The wait for you is eternal, and happier. In those instances, I live a lifetime. For every high five you complete with me, and for each knowing nudge you give me slightly, I will play the colours with you this time. For the first time, with someone.

Some on your face, some on the page,
K.

Letter to Cycle

Dear Cycle,

It is an extremely pleasant evening of flowing curtains on opposite sides of the living room, as I decide to write to you. I have also switched off the fan, and though that means couple of bugging mosquitoes, the sound of the breeze is tempting me to believe that there might be a drizzle later. A drizzle of relief. Sudden bouts of rain, in any form, has always meant just one thing -- go out and get wet. The repercussions are never to be considered at that moment. You were one such thing of my life too, go out to and with. Pleasant.

If I were to cycle this letter to you, I would be lost beyond knots of nautical miles. I wouldn't know where to find you, I wouldn't know where to begin looking for you. The last I remember of what they did to you is sell you off to some not very well off cycle-enthusiast. But I very well remember how you came to me. As a vehicle of convenience. And how you brought along an entire cosmos of being. As I took off I felt similar to how the flowy curtains must be feeling now. Free. Chained, but free.

A decade must have broken you down to scrap. Handlebars, rods, seat, brake (the right hand side my preferred one), bell, chain, wheel, spokes -- dismantled uniformly into neat sets of scrap. How can I then look for you? Honestly, all I am looking to conjure is a memory of you, and that dear one is too precious to ever classify as crumbs. The bell may not tinkle now but when it did, it felt like a natural extension of my spirit to yield the gate open.

Wherever, and in whatever shape you are now in, my letter is too tiny an attempt in trying to find and convey to you what you meant to me. You meant to me the evening breeze after a tiringly long day. You meant to me the freedom of whenevers and wherevers, and with whoevers. You meant to me tireless excitement. You meant to me a now of possibilities in a time when tomorrows were all that determined life.

One cannot pedal back,

K.

Letter to a Grandfather

:)

So, today's your turn, finally. I was actually composing one to a Visiting Card, which I must remind myself to complete soon. Were you physically around, you would have screamed "Procrastination!" at me, for the nth time. Surprising for a man who flunked the matriculation thrice to know so many English words. A letter to you -- none like the earlier ones which you must have read with a sense of pride and joy in the comfort of your office. This letter comes your way, virtually, for you are no more real.You would have read each of my letters, you would have made sure I read out each of my unposted letters to you. You would have.

A letter to you. What would it not contain? It should have my life packed tight in gratitude to you. But all of that you know and keep smiling smugly about. The yellow Parker writes and scribbles still, shades and strokes of immense assortment, and I have taken your grey Adidas t-shirt to comfort me on nights of endless ignorant hours of the mind, and yet, when I pass EC block each afternoon, six days a week, on my way back from college, you are not there to listen to me. Listen to pointless victories and remarkable ones. And have me listen to you saying that I am noble because I teach, and I am ruthless because I haven't yet mothered.

Sometimes, in the way R listens to me, it feels like you. This letter is not to thank you infinitely for being my mentor, coach, father, friend. That would be so finite. This letter cannot contain my life or its many significant nothings which are possible because you carefully nurtured them. It thrives on your values that can never be contained. This letter has just one wish.

To be listened to.

Are you listening?

K.