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.
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