Chhuti!
It is October! How can there not be a one to you? All day through, all I do (with all my heart), is either write mails, or think and plan about leading a life as a Lady of Letters (hence, writing/typing letters/mails). I am about to confess something rather arrogantly now -- I absolutely delight in the epithet. As thirty three arbitrary things-to-do unfold their seemingly harmless claw, I fail to fathom the allied danger. On the complete contrary, I bask in the satisfaction of conveying in precision what I perhaps, could not even think of. Letters complete me.
As do you. How many days has it been, months exactly, that we haven't met? Do they matter anymore? I meet you sixteen times over through the letters written and each feels as adventurous as new. Yet, it is, as I began with, October. A month ushering in categorical insanity in the city. Roads are outright narrower and people flock out with unmitigated enthusiasm. The high point, however, remains you. The reason to run away from this certainty of celebration -- to find my own. This time it will be the forests and hill stations and seaside and a lot more of unplanned travelling. I am thrilled.
Bags, they say, pack our belongings. For what is the use of all those distance covered and miles measured if at the end what remains is the nagging thought of the obligation of returning? Only with you the deadline evaporates. How nice it would be, instead, to engineer winged possibilities -- of a life punctuated with a regular dose of you, and not such hurried, rushed ones. Some more you, and many more letters. Occasioned by the impossibility of desires. No, bags hardly pack our belongings.
Basking in the glory of your premeditated flavour and my unpremeditated little joys,
K.
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