Technically, this is
not a letter -- having neither a defined recipient, nor, thus, a destination.
Yet, I feel like addressing someone. Someone I wish to love. What is it that
makes us love someone completely unrelated; yet, they begin to become
more than our own? It must be charm. But, is it? Here I am, willing to love
someone I have not seen. But yes, it must be charm, for I see the person
smartly dressed, aware and sensible, let alone sensitive.
Baba has a tendency of
going through my things and jolly good this time if he does. He will get to
know that he is the kind of person I particularly do not desire – sticking his
abnormally long nose into other people’s private business. Gosh, that felt so
good, being able to say that! Do we over-value love? Does not it end up as a
mere habit? All the preconditions that we have, at least I do, they get lost
in the everydayness of things. Things like mosquito net, or not; rice or roti,
and drinker or dancer. Whether he participates in thinking out a special day,
or passively lives it bowed inside the laptop screen, whether recites poetry or
rejects it. It must be mundane after the event of ‘dating-planning a
wedding-honeymoon’.
Do we underestimate it?
In spite of lists and leverages, we are concerned when he is unreachable
without a probable explanation. When there is a power-cut, we scream out to
him, “stay put!” and look for the torch ourselves. I don’t know. I must be
sounding so petty. Yet, I feel like giving this letter to the man I will end up
marrying. Oh yes, I surely will.
Love is a strangely
foolish thing. It makes me feel very wise and good about myself. I write
unnamed letters thinking of the essence it is floating in. I think I am
floating. I may be drowning. But then, I wish to.
Come along?
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