Love-Letter (IV)

M,

Hi! I could have so easily done this from the airport tomorrow, when the demand of killing into sleep-time will make me surf through unnecessary information online. But no, I wanted to write to you even as you are beside me, sleeping, and I see you in that baby-like face, purring sometimes, sometimes letting out a cursory snore, all cuddled and wooled into your side-pillow. You look nothing of the fierce, Bengali girl that your colleagues secretly admire and openly detest, with that terribly sharp mind.

I am glad that unlike other crumbling couples around, we aren't shooting downwards too. I shudder to think what and how life would be without you and why not. How long have we known each other now? Twelve, may be fourteen? Or, is it fifteen, back from our JEE-tuitions? We survived distance, compatibility and cultural clashes. Our 'intimate' wedding as you had envisioned was a shocker for my poor (rather rich) Punjabi parents, yet it was the best I have ever been to. 

This music-fellowship, to put in your words, I agree is a 'company-gimmick to buy' me. But M, you know how lovingly I have longed for any such opportunity. I wish you could come along too. And in your luggage, your various vanity lotions and sprays, the jazz of your clothes, the sensibility of needles, thread and tea-bags, and your many other functional bags alloted for many other demarcations. I wish my favourite critic would accompany me, more than ever. How you say, 'its too eerie, J!' or, send in that casual text some hours after you heard it, 'haunting me still, J, today's tune', or, while I am ardently looking forward to what I believe is my best, you have a 'we need to get new cushion covers!' with the same panache as 'we need phenyl' to reply. 

They are, as much a part of the symphony of music I breathe in with the dew of the mornings. One punctuated with your many phone calls, as you set the temperature for the toaster, and then pour decisions into it, like in the toaster. Oh, I love your command. And oh, I am going to miss it, badly. In fact, it may lead to a break in harmony, I feel.

In the number of years I haven't been accurate about, I may have never once told you M, but your living makes me believe in that thing called 'destiny'. As if, we were meant to be. May be the abruptness of the night light is disturbing you hence you turn twice times more than other nights, and I will miss that too -- a book and your specks between us, bookmarking our love.

In utter dis-c(h)ord,

J.