Letter to Chhuti IX

My Love!

How stupid are people, and their questions, who ask me to choose between you and C. You create me, over and over again. Just the other day (and where did the calender new year vanish?) it was the New Year, regional. And you were absolutely nowhere in sight. My team and me were working like impassionately disinterested robots, functioned to perform even on rare Sundays. All the while, I was longing for you. Just you.You had earlier brought to book, how you can make mundane lives illustrious. My little muse, you made me a digital author.

Time has made the gradual progress into scorching work-days. Which I want to turn into happier days, by practical rejections of perhaps, impractical plans. Where a day could have a bit of you, you in your two side ponytails and your smile through your chewy-teeth and your occasioned high pitch voice, serious. I am going to spend some time with you today. Just you, just me. And I will really write all the plans that I intend to take with you. All the places I want to visit, all the lives I want to live.

I want you to know of all those itineraries that weren't, of all those characters who aren't and all those holidays that won't be. At least I would have shared about them with you and in those moments, surrender to living the itineraries and characters and holidays for real. Like now, where I believe you are reading this letter on the dining table off my kitchen, your size, still tiny but understanding all that this letter unfolds. And as you read the letter, I am in the next room, setting myself beside my new drum set. We would leave later tonight, for a backpacker's trip to Australia and New Zealand.

Official dignitaries there have invited the author and her Chhuti, you see.

Help me fix the real, unreal and surreal,
K.