Here a Love, There a Love

The leaves were dusted in a faint moonlight, just receding from its full glory. They were dancing even at night, this time to the melody of the winter breeze, in full fancy. One leave touching the other, the other the other and together creating a symphony of romantic rustle. She had known the dance from two moons back, and strangely it reminded her of Bhuvan. Bhuvan Man Singh had happened as sudden as the dance, a string of delight. Tall, at his six feet two inches, and built of a polo player, he had come visiting her resort at rural Bengal for a weekend of isolation from everything royal.

While never on site for inspection, Chitralekha too was incidentally spending the same weekend there on holiday, tired of the business of hospitality. On that fateful Saturday afternoon, they both happened to witness the peepal tree coming alive with a magical rhythm. Bhuvan was walking from one end, dressed in an attire far removed from the courts of Rajasthan, while Chitra was walking from the other, nobody could denote her to be the owner in her trackpants and Welham t-shirt. As they both chose to sit under the tree at the same moment, synchronised in their upwards look towards the leaves, Bhuvan unfurled the words.

'Welham?'

'Yes. And you?' There was no hesitation.

'Mayo Boys.'

'I see.' And added as a natural after-thought, 'Of course.'

'Why is that so obvious?'

'Well. I don't know. Seemed!'

They exchanged hostel stories, like they were hostel mates for an amount of time which was ridiculous for both tehir standards till Chitra intervened suddenly.

'I heard the steamed fish is really delectable here. Would you like to try?'

Bhuvan replied, 'Only if you insist.'

'I do.' Having caught the careless note of music in that assertion, he got up and extended his hand to her. 'After you, my lady.'

'Uh-huh, thanks. Call me Chitra.'

They has an enjoyable lunch, followed by a lovely evening of cultural fiesta under the moonlight and an even tastier dinner. Sparks between them were evident and the leaves witnessed it all. After a brief exchange of contact details, they departed for their rooms, each retiring to a restless night of desire.

Easily, they both had a memorable Sunday together and by dusk they were in Chitra's room, inseparable. As they left on Monday, they knew the ensuing days would hurt. Gradually, their conversations over the phone were unending and in a week's time, they met again, this time in a five-star property at Calcutta.

She could not believe the phonecalls that went unattended one fine day. She was restless after a long time, and this time an uneasy restless. A different voice at the other end of the phone informed her mechanically of Bhuvan's most inappropriate death by design. He did not leave any reason behind, nor any cause. Bewildered, more than hurt, Chitra suffered a setback of this grandeur for the first time in her life.

A month into this and she was a chain smoker. On this particular night, she was on a balcony noticing the tree she had somehow missed observing earlier. She was at her friend's place in Delhi for the weekend. It was a peepal tree. The dance of the leaves took her back to her Bhuvan. Even in a place common to neither of them, they sang of what they had witnessed two months back. A fairytale romance growing out of them and a fairytale romance dying along.

Chitra could feel her eyes swell with tears. She knew she missed him, his companionship and this dire loneliness, yet through her smoke she could sense the immortality of their love, moving out of stage, out of focus, filling each corner, each second of the universe. The leaves breathed back dear life into her.

Love-Letter (XXXIV)

Sweetheart,

Sunaina Aunty here has sent home some wonderful cupcakes, one of which has, very sweetly, your name iced over it. Sweet that it was, it was silly too. Imagine, having to take a bite off your name. Love is indeed, a stupid thing.

Pregnancy is a blessing they say, but how can it be, sweetheart? I mean, yes, I am happy and all, and I am drunk, but this separation for months, gosh, unbelievable the logic. What the shit are you doing at your parents', Ruhi? Oh, Ruhi. I miss you Ruhi.

Lines are getting blurred and words are suddenly vanishing from my head, Ruhi. I miss you man. Can't we just not have the baby? I know its your body, your choice, but still you know, shouldn't we have waited? Brick by brick we could rebuild the loss you know. I dunno what I am saying man, but its just this that there's no you beside me fighting for a different channel, or stopping me from a sweet bite after dinner. Being a man, working from home has anyway 'unmanned' me for those who do not matter to me and claim they do. So, this one decision would not come anywhere to do anything to that reputation. Like I bloody care.

Ruhi, sweetheart, who do you love more? Me, or the unborn us?

Say it aloud!

Nihaar.

Love-Letter (XXXIII)

Viraaj,

Winter mornings be like this, sexy. Crisp bites of icy chill versus a blinding, cruel sunshine. Shadows against the wardrobe and walls, and a semi-mirror on the laptop screen. Everything in doubles, triples, many; while you sit in a cozy green armchair, hugging your contours to their singular entity. On the eve of our thirtieth anniversary, I thought of putting this chit inside the gift I have thought for you. By the way, I hope you liked the weekend getaway. And I hope we are done with the ensuing fight of why I got you the solo package.

As I must have explained already in that fight, I gifted something to you, not to us. Frankly, V, I am already tired of being referred to in pairs. Aren't you? I mean it is nice and all, thirty years of being with a wonderful you and Vaishali too, now all grown up and rather impressively. But, well, lets cut it short, I need a vacation. ON MY OWN. 

I miss those years of Tuesdays when you used to be off for your weekly visits to Alwar and return a day or two later. Remember? No, I did not use it for any affair, or anything mean. I worked, those were as usual as my Mondays or Saturdays, but they were very mine. You replaced Papaji and those visits stopped. There were parties to which we went, and without any rift between us, we topped the opinions like a song out of the oven.

V, I want you to understand, boredom is often my ultimate nemesis. And right now, I am mighty bored of the usual. Accept the difference, respect the love and honour the message.

I love you, V.

Pujita. 

Love-Letter (XXXII)

Hi Sunny,

Soon its gonna be four years that we will be husband and wife. We have gone on so many travels and have shared a life away from the life I have known till I knew you, in so much togetherness, that it is kind of stupid that we never said the iconic 'I love you' to each other. It could be sublime that we never felt the need. What could I say. I came across this book, 'Letters Held' by a new author and while I was turning the pages, I realised she had so much to speak to, and about so many things, why couldn't we have some?

The flight has three more static hours to cover and I am done with one movie, so I thought, and I thought of what I could possibly write to you. And even if I do, how will I ever give you this letter? On what grounds? Would you be happily shocked? Or simply shocked? I still do not have anything to say, separately, out of what we already do. It must be love, right?

This letter will never have an end, because mid-air, mid-way I have realized not everybody can have a way with words. 

Bye. You give me nothing to complain about, Sunny, and that is special, really.

More silence,

Anubhuti. 

Love-Letter (XXXI)

Pranay,

Up in (or, shouldn't it be 'on') the air, where prepositions actually do not matter, I am writing to you. Earlier, I used to do this quite artistically on quirky notebooks with flashy fountain pens. I cannot say it didn't bring about a rally of attention, and while my writing was more concentrated on the clouds from where the river of expressions flew, this doesn't feel too different too -- typing and unclouded. The battery of questions would have pleased you, if ever verbal. 'You use a fountain pen?', 'Are you a writer?', 'Are you an artist?', 'May I please buy you a cup of coffee?' I smiled the silences away, to your general disapproval. I know you. Knowing you too well, still makes me smile.

You think I have forgotten you? Ask yourself if that is even distantly possible. No, I do not dream of marrying you, or hovering around you for any stray, kind attention or forgivable love instances. My nails are clipped to the exact length you liked, my lips wear the same shade as you kissed, my hair the same softness wear, even though you aren't anywhere here.

The mountains smoke in daisy chains, like you. Luggages around me are packed with everything that your backpack stored. One backpack, a hurriedly pushed in pair of clean socks along with drives and disks and you were ready. For your next travel.

Another push of a sandwich wrapped in silver foil and you were done. You did not turn back to care if I was done. 

Turns out, I still am not. 

Shreya.

Love-Letter (XXX)

To Who May Be Reading,

Why do I write to you? Because I love you. Why do I love you? Because you chose to read me. Why did you? That I do not know. You may have come across my blog-site cursorily, or opened the link with joyous hope. Who knows. Do you? Ask yourself. You may be actually, just merely used to it. Reading my letters. Their letters. Others' letters. Do you know reading others' letters is a bad habit? Oh yes, a very bad habit. Yet, here we are, you and I, stuck on either side of this very bad habit.  

People say, I have gone mad. They, on the other hand, retained their sanity, and ask me too, if I have. Gone mad, that is. Or eaten something with a special power, or if something is wrong. "What the hell is happening?" they ask. Why? All because I am on this writing spree, and trust me till I am, and if it were not for the flight, I know I would have written more, I am going to remain like this -- 'what's wrong with her today?' Because, even I am not in control of this irrepressible need to write.  

I have a sore throat, ones which hide a bitter cough and couple of voices. I think the voices belong to all those whose love I write, I live. People say I imagine them. I don't. They are parts of me, you see. Does it scare you? Are you thinking if I suffer from MPD? Well, borderline for sure. But then, who doesn't? So, my characters; no, lets talk about you. How are you seeing this unputdownable spree from me? A definite delirium? Or something more delicious, say, a brief possession? Just so you know, I feel, both ways, they are the same.

It doesn't quite come to you as a love-letter, does it? It is not, is it? But, when I say it is, it better be. For what is love but the acknowledgement of the Other? You are my Other. If I am mad today, you are my mini moments of madness till now. You made me believe I could write. I needed to write to you. You asked for one. Didn't you? Aah, put your hand across your heart and say you didn't. And that is how my characters aren't just my imagination. I see them, within me. I see You.

Do I scare you? Don't be.

I only wrote to say, I love you,

KS.

Love-Letter (XXIX)

Dear Vivek,

Last night I caught Veer reading a love-letter from his girlfriend. He had placed it inside his copy of one of the trash best-sellers he goes to bed with, only he was reading it while the TV was still on. Curiously, I went and stood behind him, on tip-toe and caught him in the act. It is from that Radhika, daughter of Gaurav Nopany. Good catch, but not the best one. I have met her, she has buck teeth which refuse to undergo any treatment of invisibility.

I did not scold him, or anything as backdated as that. In fact, I am inspired and hence writing you one. You must be reading this as you fiddle out your phone from the inner pocket of your suit and find a stray piece of paper, which you will not recognise, comes from one of Parchhi's products. Do you even know what Parchhi specialises in? Nobly, you did invest in my dream project and do not complain even when I do not show you the registered profits, but we are indeed taking the city by the storm. As your car swerves for today's road leading to the first meeting, you may, or may not, choose to open it, and read on. Or, may not.

Assuming you do, I hope this letter doesn't catch you too much by surprise. I fancied my hand in writing one because truly, you are my soulmate, even though the gossip sections of the magazines refute and spread rumour, and I am blessed to have a husband like you. You never stopped me from anything, forever encouraged me towards learning, and even go out of your way and bring me gifts each time you are out. Veer is a young man and I pray he follows your footstep. His career is his own choice but to be a man of the world, I hope he takes after you.

I do not know what else to write. If I were the old Chandrika, may be I could have planned something more elaborate for this special delivery, but as your wife, everything seems to be taken care of, even before I get a chance to think. Yes. I found it. I miss thinking. If possible, Vivek, permit me the scope to think. Everything else is, touchwood, perfect.

Assuming you completed reading this letter, I am sure you missed the point. So, let it be. I have to make a dash for collecting the Gucci scarf at Taj. Wearing it tonight, so that when you wear me on your arm to the Jindals' new bungalow, I live up to the 'thinking woman of today'.

Love,

Chaand.

Love-Letter (XXVIII)

Nishant,

Hi. Well, this is awkward, indeed. All through our two year old relationship, we never once wrote to each other, depending mostly on voice-notes. Smart phones are designed to obey commands, as you know. Earlier, we had to suffice with our own memory, rather than a super external or a terrific random one. Thinking of my life, I was wondering where to assign myself of those command-obeying categories. Where do you fathom?

Paridhi rightly says I am a coward. That, and somewhere also an escapist. I do not like ugly misunderstandings, and bitter proving of points and slapping of words. The change of location was somewhere desired by me, in spite of our couplehood, because it was already doomed. My senses have been broomed well to take care of my grooming. I found Rishi. He does not feed commands into me, you see. That is the difference. You could say he isn't smart that way, to make things happen as very likely could, but his girl is damn happy with the way he is and likes his silly attempts at pouts and fashion mishaps.

Nishant, you were all that Rishi will and can never be, yet I am content. Goes to show how well I can manage without your smart-feeds, 'study for CLAT', 'do not wear red lipstick', 'where's your car, how will you return?' Rishi, on the other hand, is studious, funny and manageably well to do. He suits me. Which brings me to how ill-fitted we were to each other. We were the best of fabric, bought with attention, that went into a devastation because of catastrophic tailoring.

It still feels awkward, continuing. I will not be so immodest by not mentioning how good too you felt, but you always came with a condition. That kills joy. The shadow on the screen over the letter is of a dusty me, the only thing dazzling is the earring on my right ear, the screen turns mother of pearl from dust. Your Mum had got that for me, remember? When you had given it to me you had said, 'this is yours, you are ours'. I was happy but the happiness was leaking. You were already seeing me as a representative of your family values. Too soon, Nishant.

Unending brawls, and interim hugs do not build a relationship, Nishant. I am not sorry. When I loved you, I did. Now I don't, and I don't.

May you find love,
Ranjika.

Love-Letter (XXVII)

Miss Barsin Manekshaw,

Boys in my class wet their pants after Jacky Fernandes, Nargis Fakhri or Katrina Kaif in a manner which I fail to understand. I mean here you are, don't they see, good they don't. While I will be doing Marketing, you must be specialising in Finance as your surname suggests and you must be a couple of sems older, but what the heck. I mean, how can one keep their eyes off you?

I am sorry if this has so long sounded creepy, I had no intention of it being so. Miss Barsin Manekshaw, how cruelly alluring is your name itself, speaking of secret chambers of society one must only become a part of to know about. What must your name mean, since you aren't married to any Alexander already, great or otherwise? What is the secret behind your infamous reticence and your famous scores?

Each time I see you, in one new sunglass after the other, your clothes never repeated, I am convinced you are not the kind of woman we, middle-class brains or sensibilities are used to, but then, you casually pat someone's back, or laugh with a clap, and snatch someone's diary...you see, these are things again, we are used to -- making you somewhere an extraordinary commoner. 

Miss Manekshaw, I pine to know you, of you, be with you, around you; not like one of the mouth-lapping puppies but as a deserving friend, and I am sure this letter says nothing of that sort, but I can grow up to be anyone you wish to. That is my skill.

I do not profess irrational love. I do not profess irrelevant craving. Barsin, your name sounds like the rain. All I wish is to get wet in it.

Your humble onlooker,

Chittaranjan Mukherjee.

Love-Letter (XXVI)

Dearest Cousin of Mine,

While you roam the streets of Bulgaria, lighting them up with your friendly passions and criminal smiles, I brush the morning off, a little nobody, waking up happy to be travelling, but wishing it were to you, with you. Such are wishes. Silly wishes.

Mountains, deserts, sea, sky -- apart from trapping us in their eternal enticement, what else do you think they do? Hope, endless hope they carelessly sprinkle; and whosoever in that vast arena of hopelessness wishes to be seasoned, is changed! Your religious momentary exchanges with me, brimming with love and affection, are such. That is all I hold on to. 

I thought to myself if all this attention my entirety has towards you, is it worth it? Somethings, replied my kind self, are just invaluable. And the rest? Well, my more free-willed soul told me, they can go to hell. So, you see, every bit of me is, well, torn. Shredded into fine little cubes of, little cubes of...whatever.

I promised myself, I won't write more than a page to you, and even if I wouldn't I couldn't have possibly gone on to express what I feel for you. I am angry with the world that doesn't accept cousins as soulmates, I am thankful to the universe for allowing me to know you from such close proximity. I am happy we share a bond, yet I am hurt that it is only to the blood.

It breaks me that I have to deck up for your wedding in less than two hours. Those sharing my room, are sloshed out of control and I may be too, else I wouldn't have dared to write this, but I am also happy that you get to marry the girl who would keep you happiest.

Only you think so, for you never gave me a chance. Yet, mountains, deserts, sea, sky -- apart from trapping us in their eternal enticement, you now do know what else they do...

In bits and pieces,

Mugdha.

Love-Letter (XXV)

Hello Hotness,

What? You thought I was not aware of such language usage? I grew up in a convent, you may have missed. Anything forbidden is all the more desirable and the ultimate object of knowledge. So, here I am, all of seventeen and pouring my heart out to you. Infatution, many say, that's who you are. Are you?

Then why do I daily day dream that you would come home, no, not on a white horse, but in a red car, the halo of success all over your collar, wrist and cuff. I see you, the perfect mate in kitchen apron, helping me chop and clean as we settle to cook. I love those unbearably gliding shoulder blades lounging into the arm as I finger them and you take a sip from your bedside bottle of water, switch off the TV.

You are the premier cut of a steak, the man of all dreams, the soul of a gathering. You are Hotness -- a chin so delectable, a dimple so subtle, a neck so unpardonable. You are not the person on the other side of the mirror writing this fucking letter to self. A fat getting fatter good for nothing, a soul doused in doubts and a monumental sentimental who would never receive the first half of such a letter. 

You are Cold, and Cruel, a woman's man in the farthest of her imagination. All your Dad's riches would not assure you any standing, because you are lame -- in your thoughts, frozen in your confused clarity. 

You are the Me I can never Be.

Aditya Shekhar Raj, in a failed attempt to write a love-letter.

Love-Letter (XXIV)

Dearest Sydzie,

I like that spelling. You? Guess what, I saw Mom quietly keeping the handkerchief set under Dad's pillow, the same one I told you other day about? Yes, the one on which she was stitching in secret, while she should have been peeling peas. She was prepping the jacket potatoes for dinner when I found her taking up the needle and fight to push in one end of the royal blue spool of thread. It dazzled, more so with my curiosity. 

I am so relieved to find it finally made it under Daddy's pillow. So sweet of Mum to cook up a Christmas dinner for us as a surprise. We exchanged gifts of convenience and benefit, but Mum's little notes touched me most. You won't believe the effort she took to place each of us a special something inside our individual ramekins. I got a silver brooch! Daddy was taken aback he got nothing. I felt bad for him too. But Andy got a tie-pin, and his delight was too much to allow us all to forget Dad's lack of one.

Gifts are, on a different note, such a thoughtful way of sharing love -- you can be practical, pragmatic, generous, caring -- what an amazing way to reflect your personality. And this brings me to your Christmas gift. I could not save enough to buy you the guitar you have been eyeing for a year now, so Siddhartha, I got you couple of tit bits instead.

One. A Hidesign wallet not of alligator pattern. That rich brown will shine out of your back-pocket. 

Two. A basic tea-kit consisting miscellaneous flavours of teabags, milk-powder sachet and a box of sugar-cubes. Could not afford your favourite wine, Sydzie. Sorry, honey.

Three. A box of plectrums -- thin, mid, thick -- to strum whatever guitar comes your way, and belt out the kindest of soulful melodies to stir up the soul. You can keep 'em in your new wallet!

Wish you a very merry Christmas, precious, and a year of your desires. As for me, the first piece of writing from this wonderful fountain pen you gave me, could only be to you! Thank you, sweets! 

The gifts are jingling all the way.

Love,

Cheryl.

Love-Letter (XXIII)

Di,

What a lovely term it is, and lovelier still it feels, to be able to call you that. It entails a sisterly bond, yes, but goes beyond. School, college, tuition, and now university -- they have always given me this additional reason to be in them -- you. I love the distance between our classrooms and yet the nearness in our distance, it suffices for the years in between. It feels so complete to know you.

People around, friends that they are termed as, hardly matter, when you are with me. Just as much the fairness of your skin awes me, the fairness of your character sometimes does anger me. I do not like it when you tag along other fans of yours in our walking space, our travelling space, our being space. Does that signify that I am selfish? So be it, Di, yes, you heard it correct, so be it. 

For how many loves have you known to conquer entire lives? Of kingdoms and hearts we have heard enough. I do not ask for anything in return, that would justify a space for unrequited love. I really ask for nothing. Nothing more than these letters you read, the conspiring smile of understanding you pass, the melody in music we share and of course, the tinier nothings of bus rides and dressed up brides.  

Di, my world flames up with this word, and with you. Few seconds of our togetherness encompasses a lifetime I could live on with, yet I am never satiated.

Tell me how you feel when I call you that. What do you feel?

So much love that I did not know even I was capable of,

Shireen.

Love-Letter (XXII)

Meira,

When one receives a dust green envelope amidst a stack of official looking envelopes, even though the name is stuck on it in a typed label, one knows the precision is from you. I did not have the courage to open it and carried it with me till I am here, all by myself, in the memories of our cold JNU campus.

I do not wish you each year mechanically, and who knows it better than you and I long to see your munchyplum in smart clothes, rather than in boring, protective ones. I cannot assure you that I would be able to hold myself back when she has a spoonful of maple syrup too many on your fabulous smelling pancakes, but I would try. There are no promises I can extend to you about 'us', for you were correct there, my correctness may be an obstacle alright. But, somehow, your letter opened in me a warmth I was only too well used to. I am happy Chinkiepie gets to gobble it all up now.

No. What your letter did was remind me of all that I had, a loving, laidback life that I began detesting. What went into me that I am still used to it now? A competitive, fast-paced, work-ambition-success life, with no time even to explore the city I visit for meetings. I cannot tell you that I do not miss you, nor can I ask if we can ever return to each other. But sometimes, I too wish...

To see you cuddled in my arms in my shirt, to see us growing up with our muchin' princess. What could I possibly have done to blurt out that decision of moving apart in life? Goddamnit, Meira. Your letter has left me out of sorts. I am incapable of grammar, and most likely, like always, only capable of endings.

Thinking of you, Meira. Thinking a lot,

Nikhil.

Love-Letter (XXI)

My Dearest Nikhil,

Space for latest chart-busters on my phone have been ably replaced by unending photographs and one to-do app after the other. I am no longer the woman you had once loved, who knew a song in its entirety within two seconds of it playing. You must have come across my name, an upcoming children's author, and I make enough out of it for me and my little one. Of course you know her, my Chinkipie munchyplum; we are still undecided about her good name, having shifted from Niharika to Lekha. So, you see, Nikhs baby, I call her baby now, and write short stories and cook simpler meals and know more about expectorants than about exotic wines. It does get a bit queasy in the mornings, even if I have the help around. I am changed, supermom and all, they say. I do not disagree.

Ever since I shifted base, I do not have friends flocking in on birthdays, an occasion to stay up and uncork bottles. Nice young years they were, joyous and eventful, balloons and wrappers, pizzas and pastries. Last night I felt the difference. Your wish was there, constant, yet distant. I was there, detached, yet happy. No balloons and wrappers, pizzas and pastries; a cup of coffee too many, and on the menu, Chinku's favourite -- khichri. I thought of you after the dinner and a cartoon show on TV, everything about you is still constant, your choices, your style, your life -- without me. Is it good? Perhaps. Is mine? Yes. While yours is constant, mine is constant only in variations. But I am used to it now.

Except for the occasional business of missing you and thinking warily about how life would be, with you. Chinkie's food would be under your glance of nutrition, her winter garments needing to pass your idea of protection. I would have to undo my bra according to your sense of health hazards and keep teaching as the epitome of right profession. No, that would be too tiring, being under your undoubtedly great benchmark of goodness. Tiresome, boring, and rendering the love in between, useless.

So, here I am, thinking of you. Detached, yet happy. Strange are the ways of the world for I still sleep with your shirt on, and your chin beside me. Or, is it only what I wish it were? Who knows!

Throw the letter away, of course.

Loving you still,

Meira.

In Thick Soup

Having come back from a class on The Fly, Anamika busily sat down with her mobile phone, managing replies and responses. At the back of her mind was the assignment she had to submit at her tutorials tomorrow. RB would flare up if she did not write a satisfactory answer. She was terrified of disappointing her. Damn you Nivedita, trust you to come up with a useless brawl with Ashish today. And tagging me along in it. Bitch. 'Mom, what's for dinner?'

Ten minutes later, Anamika was served a thick sweet corn soup with grilled bread and a scoop of boiled vegetables. Her notebook was open next to the plate of grilled chicken which she chose to ignore. So were the text of The Fly and her laptop. She had converted the dining table into her work-station. With each spoon she had, she forced herself to think something good enough for RB. Almost halfway through, she gave up. Today was just not her day, she had to face RB's temper. As she shut down her laptop and bit on a boiled inch of carrot, she picked up a boiled pea from the grilled chicken plate and dropped it in her soup bowl. Become a fly and tell me how you really feel!

The green pea obeyed her command and out came tiny wings of shoots from two sides of its diameter and it became a Harry's Green Snitch, flying over the soup and fighting its way through the yellow corns to find its way to the bottom of the bowl, where one Mr Mushroom awaited it under its umbrella. That was the goal -- to hold its breath for as long as possible and stay underwater, ooops, under the umbrella below the soup. The green-pea maneuvered its way -- left, right, left, left, left and finally right into the centre. A steel fork helped it, almost humanely, to move those monstrous yellow golden-moulds. I am the champion! I am diving down! I don't care! As soon as the fork was lifted though, the pea popped up, back to the surface of the soup. It failed to fly, it failed to die, it failed to stay, it failed to slay. "I am a Pea, not a Fly! Eat me Alive!"

Almost as if someone were screaming such slogans into her ears, Anamika returned from her trance into the cold bowl of sad looking corns swimming shorelessly in the soup. She had no answer, not from the pea, not one for RB. As she left the dinner table, she knew she was in thick soup and there was no way she could fly out of it.

Love-Letter (XX)

Beloved Beatrice,

They have sent me away, in the name of ‘inspiration’ to this mad metropolis called Calcutta, but how would they ever believe that it resides unaware and plump, in Shillong itself? My various uncles and aunts have agreed to put me up with them for the duration of this vacation and the city quite agrees to the spirit of celebration. It is decked up in lights, shows and sales. I could easily do a paper on the soaring psychological sales during festivals if Economics ever allowed that, but, I am destined to be brave this morning and I decided, what better than to tell you bravely, of brave things I wish to do.

Belonging to the minority community back in town, yet being well-off, is a handicap. My parents could not afford another blotch in the name of their son pursuing fashion studies, or music, like the ‘hippies of North-East’. Shillong must be looking so quaint at this time of the dawn. It is barely 6 am, and the roads are yelling out Sunday special treats through the curtain of cold. What is it there? A veil, I presume. Curving and bending and lapping up and seeping in. Everything that comes its way. Strange, how we take to things once we are away from it. They may be thinking I am gay, but I love you. Oh, there, it is out. Perhaps even more difficult – loving someone who is a Catholic Christian and the beautiful daughter of one of Abbu’s dearest competitors.  

How fierce must be this feeling, B, that I had to be sent off. One of the last things I do remember is having confessed to Ammi about you and then being chained for a week to that dogged driver of ours and finally waking up in a pool of blood with a threatening sense of not having you in my life. I overheard Doctor Uncle tell Abbu in all concern that I ‘need a break’. How do I explain that all I need is you? I even heard Abbu tell him a lie, and that is perfectly abominable – a lie. Our religion does not allow such ethical downfall. It allows love. He said you do not even exist. A little removed from complete consciousness, I laughed. Ask me about B. There she sings in the choir, stuck in the front row, her eyes lit up like the little yellow and red boxes on the Christmas trees. Her boots hugging her calves and her fingers tapping by her side to the rhythm, while another set firmly holds the paper. There she is, faintly aware of me and passing me an unsure smile in between the carols and there she is, B, in all her hilly tenderness. How could they say you do not exist?

Inspiration is a sad thing to hunt for when your uncles and aunts keep feeding you too much sweet. It dulls me. I do not even respond to the fact now that most of them are new faces, but all too kind. B, I had even lost track of time and given up on any hopes of returning to you or my room. Till I glanced out of my window to see the lights, shows and sales of the city, advertised right across. It must be Christmas. Why do I have a beard? I never liked it. Have I aged with uncles and aunts, while all I wanted was to age with you?

The brave thing I did – this dawn I woke up to find the door uncle snoozing. I sneaked past him and came into this room. It belongs to an older, better Doctor Uncle. I am at his comfortable chair now, writing in his letter pad with his pen. How funny, it has so many things written under his name, where he got his degree from and where he got his other degree from. Dear B, if we ever get married, you can take me back to Shillong or to Edinburgh (where he got his degree from) and I can spend my life listening to your carols. Life will be Christmas then, everyday. There are some white and orange coloured sweets in his drawer which I feel like having, so I will end now. And B, tell them, you are here. They do not believe me when I say that you have come to rescue me and are building a plan under my bed!

I love you.

Azaan. I seem to have forgotten the rest of my name.

Love-Letter (XIX)

Chitraang,

There are times when I wish I were a poet instead of choosing to study Astrophysics. I would be someone like Neruda then. Writing and devoting to you the cruelest little of lines in the most beautiful manner. For you deserve the best. But no, I am only a star-gazer and I cannot summon the sweetest way to call forth your attention. Like my love. Perhaps it fell short, somewhere. Somewhere in between my measuring of the unfathomable and the doing of the needful, my love must have fallen short. 

I think I have in fact been causal to the few rattles that you may have had with Tehzeeb. Frankly, I did not believe you both would last. But, as they say, the stars have lives that not many can live. I am not going to turn this into a testimonial about either of you, for the two of you truly have proven that laws of love do exist. 

Two people, so entirely different, yet happily complete with each other, are a rare sight to behold. In moments when my love for you crosses its civil limits, I wish it were me instead, with you. Am I being selfish, possessive? I do not care. Am I being irrational? I do not care, again. But, look, with that, am I hurting you? Yes. And that is why I leave. I do not wish to hurt you, Chitraang, not a bit. 

I am too much in love with you to either hurt you or not hurt myself.

On nights when you have the time or intention to gaze at the sky, and no one to tell you of names of stars, would you once think of me? Once?

No, I rather be an Astrophysicist than a poet.

Gauri.

Love-Letter (XVIII)

Surabhi,

 

Wherever you may be, would you believe that you are still a Dear? It is funny, to think and know that I have to use my ‘contacts’ to find out about you, where you are. Why do you think I am doing this – this trying to reach out to you? Well, sadly, I did push back my emotions into the darkest corner of my mind; dark, but they remained softly lit, happily lit; aloof from sight, but bright to the brim.

I went for judging an on-the-spot creative writing contest yesterday at Ink, Blots & Pots. As I walked past the enthusiastic participants, I could not but hover for a second more on the face which had a striking similarity with you. I looked down at the page she was writing in. Her handwriting was even more evocative, those convent curls with individual full-circles over each ‘I’. Just like yours. She did not win the contest, Gargi Mitra. A Bhaswati Bhandari did. But, it wasn’t Bhaswati’s writing that I reminiscent over, now. Oh it was better than the rest, but Gargi had your face. A pure-geek-capable face. To put it squarely, she brought back the days of our youth.

I see you scolding Gargi, asking her to be more cautious towards her grammar. I see you packing her tiffin, same as yours, and going out for a corporate job, knowing how much you hated teaching. I see you having a circle of contacts, which I could not build while I was a budding author, having dared to speak with your parents seriously about our marriage proposal. I could not make use of a non-existent contacts group when I wanted to stop the wedding preparations and celebrations at your end. I died the death of a thousand sleepless nights.

Till, my book became a bestseller and turned me into a name.

Quite unbelievably, I am a contact now, a contact people wish to use. Magically, a phone-call from me ensures admissions into educational institutions or appointments with doctors. Athletes, artists and actors invite me to parties. Apparently, I am the face of the nation. You could say better. Do you remember my face? I am speaking of a time which dates back to decades.

Columns rather than kitchen helped me make my meals. A series of heartbreaks followed. This was mostly because I ended up thinking of you, I could not erase you. So I wrote Sita’s Wings. You may have recognized my name, and if you read it, found yourself in it. It is a fiction and does not adhere to truth.

You gave me wings, you showed me the sky to fly off to. Gargi’s face brought me back to the earth, one without you. Knowing you only too well, this letter, though of much value to a collector, would find itself shredded in the office dustbin. Or, dunked in the Mumbai sea. No sailor would revive it, no mermaid would find it.

It would wet the ink to be one with the waves till the sea starts unfurling my story, each time it touches the shore. Till your breath takes in the brine of my tears.

Still yours,

Reetarth.

Love-Letter (XVII)

Gorky my love,

Vienna was such a lovely city, rich and resourceful, keeping me on my guard lest I miss something important. By contrast,it feels so soothing to walk around aimlessly in the streets of Prague, touching the grass here and having a berry there. The cobbled streets remind me of our walks in Istanbul, and our differences and our tea-clad kisses. We even stayed away from each other for three days there! What a waste.

You would have gulped in Prague like a baby takes in the first taste of spice – unsure, excited, brave. This is not exactly your towering Tokyo, with its framed cherry orchards, yet this is where I long to have you around. How long till we kill the distance, Gorky? Suddenly, the vastness of three years stretch out, and it becomes endless. I don’t know what made me take such a decision to embark upon different cities, you in Tokyo, me in Dublin, even if for ‘just’ three years, but I repent it now.

Prague has opened certain chambers of my emotions which got layered in dust. I am thinking Singapore, or Frankfurt, with you. For a lifelong of howling mornings and scowling evenings and bitter nights which turn into soft mornings and lit up evenings and passionate nights, the next. I am thinking how much I have to tell you about ‘No Shave November’ and the young boys in back at the Univwho refer to you when they do. These kinetic flashbacks are like epiphanies.

My Vltava ride is scheduled in twenty minutes. Susan is here, with Tim. Marc sends his energetic wishes to you. All my wishy-washy, wistful wanderings hope to find you deep in research, in the most unexpected way possible.

Ciao!

Vidhi.