As Vasundhara finished the last night with an ample amount of wakefulness to give her company, she forgot to pull the curtains. This morning when the harsh light fell on her face to stop her from sleeping, it felt like a yellow alarm urging her to jump off a cliff. The bottle was on the floor, horizontal. Adamantly, she turned the other side and brought up the letter, vertical. Of all things that she could have done to end her misery, she chose to write. She smiled at this powerless assault she decided to undergo. It seemed so flat, as if the notes were never meant to wear music. Slowly, she woke up to these words:
Beloved Abhinay,
As I call out your name, it makes more sense than ever. Abhinay. I am drinking from the bottle that we last drank out together from. Remember that night? I do. It was a weekday, you were back from work, presenting yourself as a surprise on my door, the kindest you are on bored evenings. I was flattered to be visited. You were the occasion I decked up to, cooked for, made incessant showering love with. We spooned up to each other on the window sill and spoke of nothing, soaking up the night. We heard each others' silence. Or so I thought.
On other days you were never your kindest self, were you? No, as I have never, I will not complain about calls you do not accept, messages you do not reply, plans you do not execute and dreams you do not even see. How do I even blame promises that you never make? It is a pity you made me into the me I have become. Yes, without you I could never confront the confidence I never had, or, would I? But with you what did I allow myself to become? An audience to your arrogance, appreciating every act, I am glad to be your change. Abhinay, like a flautist you touched my unexplored depths and turned them into magnificent melodies.
And, what does one say of your dark brown eyes? The chocolate warmth in them stirs up my being even now. Their movement consents my entity. And how many lies have I seen swim in them? How many of my tears have they never opened up to? Many of my same days have wedded different nights with you. I have kept many fallen leaves from our walks, some drunken laughs too. Take them away. Please. I do not want to be owned any more, and do not know what to do with such trunks of my wettest memories. Some with rain, some with sea, some others with moonshine. Take them away, Abhinay. Take them away.
In the tryst of love I have charted my life in, I wish to stop suffering, or longing for an unknown murkiness of distant tomorrow. All my memories that could well be called ours belong to a forest of graveyards. It would rain and they would yield chapters. For no one to read, for no one to know. They would wither away. In a forgetfulness that would not call for blood or bottles. Take them away.
And then one day, should anything ever remind you of me, think of the love that could have been. It now breathes in a coffin. There is a music to it. I am sure you have the ear for it. I have the heart.
Wishing you a life,
Vasundhara.
She could not believe what she held. She read it through breakfast. She read it till lunchtime. It had a mind of its own which kept asking her, 'When would you send me over?' Vasundhara remained afflicted with her answerlessness. She went back to reschedule her trip to Wimbledon and repack her suitcases. She could not dare to sit with her laptop or take up her pen. They would sing songs that did not belong to her. And fought for an answer.
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