Love-Letter (XIV)

To Think of You

Is to Think in Strokes

Dearest of All,

Neil,

The breeze is beautiful since dawn. Sarees drawn on clothes-line, set to dry, look adamant in refusal and blow brave -- like a parachute -- lending one more patched pattern to the sky. I woke up early, as usual, expecting you to call me around 6 30 am. But you didn't. So I thought of landing with that parachute onto something more adventurous than sending you a text. I thought of us. And I thought since it is your birthday in a week, let me write you a song.

Having juggled with jingles for more than half my life, I calculated, I wasn't yet armed enough to articulate what I feel for you, now, this day. I wrote those two paltry lines and gave up. Truly, to think of you is to think of strokes. All over me. My body. My being. Take a cup of tea for instance. It is full-bodied, isn't it? Yet, when one infuses jasmine, or lemon in it, the flavour overpowers the senses. Something of the sort.

I cannot think of songs anymore, or words. Sometimes I wish there were no miles between us, no frequent flyer points. No goodies won in return, or cookies bought at airports. I wish to wake up with you, that is all. Rather than to your phone call. I wish to go to sleep tugging you tighter than your good night wish. I hope such wishes do not burn like candles to burn out. I wish to touch you like the molten wax, and make sultry shapes along your strokes.

Missing you.

Yours,
Bharvi.