Letter to Chhuti XIII

Dearest Chhuti,

There is a daughter, there are readers and then there is a you. You, with whom it all began. My Time-Out. When I wrote you that dozenth letter, I never thought that I would ask you one day if you knew I write you letters. Today, an august audience Sunday, where you craddled up in my lap, woolballed in my arms and dunked in my embrace, once again you made me feel how much, just how much I love you. I do.

Chhuti. I have gone ahead and done something that is best explained by the world as the most foolish thing possible. Yes darling, I resigned from the honourable and lucrative job at hand of a full-time college teacher. I was called an Assistant Professor. AssProf. Ass, actually. What an Ass! No, Chhuti, don't laugh too hard. K's best friends are from the same field. Grander, Tougher, Legendary Asses. Let us get back to us. Asses are a tough spot to be in! So, this institution I was teaching in and at (both prepositions applicable), wrung my endurance, tested my patience and ended my tolerance. I decided to opt for you instead. You and I. 

Those hilly holidays, those Christmassy afternoons, those sudden long drives -- remember? Why, C has even taken to you. But how would you know? I never had the time to get you both together to get along. I am guilty as charged of not writing to you oftener. Yet, I feel forgiveness flourishing in you when you ask me to make you drink water and tilt your neck exactly to the angle which I ask you to. The mouth of the bottle was too large for your tiny mouth. I feel the forgiveness when you let me draw an anklet on your chubby ankles. The flowers in the chain will fade, Chhuti, but the joy of seeing them grow in the garden of friendship will stay along. 

Such is the beauty of the conspiracy we share. Our strange friendship. 

You will grow, but I will never outgrow you.

I love you, little holiday,

K.