Love-Letter (V)

Amidst the many changes in the sky and those on the road, not to mention the changing faces around, I deem it correct to seclude myself and in isolation, think of our togetherness.

Dear, dear, Sangjukta,

This had to be it. While away at our respective works, avoiding each other over bitter mornings and hangovers, this had to be the only means for me to find my way back to you. Wasn’t this what had found way into your heart, you said? How long has it been since one? I missed it too, writing to you. And now that I am back, it feels like you are next to me, listening to it all even before the words are out. There was so much romance in sneaking the letter into your satchel, when I think of how easy it is going to be today – putting it under your pillow. Or, should I just put it in the folds of your night suit?

This space we share, this home of two concrete rooms, oh, how well we had dreamt of it in dusky carpets over parks and glitzy dinners in restaurants. I am thankful to be working from home today and to be able to call it so. The walls have us all over, no not as shadows, but as little frames of friendship instead. Somewhere along the way, we have begun to wear it as our very own. Without you, this house lacks the additional vocals to the various songs coming out of the music system, or the turning of whatever-at-hand into a musical instrument. It is not disheveled and strangely, the methodical doing of it is clinching the eye. There is no constant irk within me, each time your phone rings. The silence is headily arresting.

I will hug you the moment you come in today, dissolve the anger and hold your hand all the way to the dining table which I would have laid out with your favourite meal – the rice is already set to boil. Time to separate the water. Think I will add a bit of saffron and pep it up with a bit of change. Returning to this later.

I wish the truthfulness of my words had a reality to live, a reality I dream of daily. This letter will never be delivered for it has never been written. And yet, Sangjukta, we live on. You live on. You cannot stop me from that wish which gets fulfilled like the soft sunshine that gets trapped in the curtain. ‘It is dust’, you would say. ‘It is what we can touch and know that sunshine is’, I would.

Forever,

Raktima.