Letter to Chhuti & Chinky

Hi little ones,

I have been writing tons of letters to the two of you, spilling my heart all over, and deceiving even deception. Fabricating a quilt-world to inhabit over that of barren truths. Over six months of story-telling, and I have come to believe in truths of managing curls and the possibilities of backpacking with half-sized people with double the enthusiasm. I promised many promises to self, and many more to many others, each of which became a part of the procrastination. I am totally unnerved, entirely unsettled, and completely unsure of myself at this moment to have your companionship. It feels I will contaminate you both too, with my many doubts. 

I do not know a second person who lives a mask like the back of her hand. It is like playing half-widow to half-truths. I feel like the bird who visited this campus in December and watched the manicured badminton court around which had happy faces who sweared under their breath. She returns this summer morning to the same place, unkept and untended. There are too many un-s already. Too much doubt to not crossover to you pure hearts. 

I was going through my letters to you both, a testimony to lies. Things that you should not be reading, things you need not know. Things that aren't, quite simply, are not, right? We need not list them. And put a fancy label like 'Have-K/Nots'. I would rather have you both have friends your age, fighting over who had a chewing gum first than dealing with a person who does not even believe in herself. Someone who believes in the arrested world of words rather than in their tangibility. Someone who cannot bear to give away her sad eyes and sadder smile, but sadly does not know how to deal with either.

Till then, C & C, grow up confidently, for that is sexy. Grow up knowing how to face verity and not to chalk an escape route around. I will not promise you further letters, for I do not know where I will be next, but trust me, no one will be happier to know that you are receiving letters, than me. I do not know where I am writing this letter from, and I do not want the next letter to be the same. May be we will meet again. In times which have more light than now, and are not so deep in anxiety of the unknown. Where clarity is not to be sought, but to be lived in. When fancy becomes fact.

And in it all, then and now, the only surety of my being has been that I love you, the most uncontaminated.

K was a garden that blossomed, went wild and finally withered.
Of wildflowers.