Love-Letter (XII)

When I was very, very young, things like sugar-cube fascinated me -- how exotic they seemed, or, bread-sticks, appropriately bread, yet cylindrical. I could not understand how salt disappeared from the glass of warm water that I was handled for gurgling, even though it tasted salty. Medicines (given the monthly cough regiment I had to undergo), and how they were so tiny, and so powerful that they could flush out the cough. I even broke some of the capsules or tablets and imagined a world of names in those orange-blue granules. And, you.

Then I grew up. Quite un-impressively so. While girls around me flaunted their knees in short skirts and hair in long styles, I had to wear longer skirts and shorter crops. I felt miserable. Books fascinated me then. You could say they were a world because of which I now had an excuse not to go out with my growing ugliness. I was spellbound by the names which went into the making of one single book, and its barcode. Did all the barcodes in the world really differ from the other? Movies did too. How does the director remember which shot ended where. Or, how lenses which claim to be made of ninety nine percent water content, even those on spectacles, were capable of making us see accurately. And, you.

I got married, rather young, making me old. I came to terms that I too could be desirable. Things still amazed me. Newer information, which were earlier filled with wrong ideas -- that a petrol pump extracts fuel from the underground, that curd is set by its remain, that a life is methodically predictable -- all got rightly repealed. The correctness of course, amazed me. Flood is really man-made?  I am really loved? And, you.

For the past three to four years I have undergone the correctness of one of my miscalculations -- that life was predictable. I am somewhat presentable, mostly appear confident and though, quite unsure still, of either my qualities or my looks, I have come to terms with facing compliments with a pleasant 'thank you', rather than an embarrassing 'what are you saying!' I have aged well, as they would say of a good Single-Malt. I am surprised. I am clearly more aware of my limitations over my capabilities and decisions over confusions. This makes me happy. And, you.

You. Yes, you. A sometimes verbal, sometimes silent affair with you has become me. What was it, the process? First your courageous charm fascinated me. Next did your sickening route of success formula. Then were your well-informed deviations into intelligent diversification. And finally, your decision to orate well. To show the world what a self-made man can be, at fifty. A collection of the previous twenty-five years in the reel-life and a stalwart in the art of living in real life. You delight me even as you age well too.

I am a teacher today. Sad, boring, but true. Professionally, that is. I think what I am rather, is -- and it needs to be written like this -- 'I am a writer.' A lot of my inspiration and learning comes off you. I had once written a letter to you, Shahrukh Khan, claiming you are the teacher I look up to. As social media comes to inhabit our thinking, I am more than convinced, I was, and am correct. You are. It is a strange joy that you exhume -- comic laughter and deep philosophy -- enough to learn a lesson or two from.

I am glad to be a crazy, whoopy dancing fan-girl. And since I am a writer and you are my teacher, this love-letter had to differ from all the others that fans beget you.

I am glad You are my Khan.

Thank You for being,
K.