Letter to Chhuti XVIII

Dear Chhuti,

Newer lives are being welcomed joyfully into this tragic world of ours, yet, all we are hurrying towards is a never-ending note of living -- living 'meaningfully', however meaninglessly. I hope they are spared, the newbies. Sorry little one, I began on a note of pessimism intrinsic to me, but it is the season of lights, and so shall it be, however dim.

Yesterday, when you were around, you must have noticed how the boys were lighting up the tubris? It was amusing to watch it open up, was it not? It felt like a synchronized rainfall, set to the orchestrated sound of deep monsoon. The only problem is, the example. It is, ironically, a misfit. Fire and water do not go well. It did rain fire, still. Entrancing, those moments, whether you watch it, mesmerized, or, hear it, giving it the respect it demands, or then finally clap and scream in delight! How did you feel about it? I felt sad. Like, a happy-sad. A loved misfit.

There's so much more meaning to relentless meaninglessness. It is so fulfilling, that delivering and performing, are, on the contrary, meanings that fail to convince about their existence. In my world, that is. You are slipping away. Even as I am aware that you are, I cannot but let you go.

Your little palms of profound possibilities, your flighty feet of faraway promises, your fearless laughter defying every obstacle...everything is dissolving into routines of schedules and destinations, and chapters and ceremonies. Yet, I cannot but let you be, even though I wish you would carry me along too -- to neverlands of daydreams.

As the days unfurl, one after the other, they fail to administer the importance of a 'tomorrow'.

See you sooner than soon,

K.