Love-Letter (XVIII)

Surabhi,

 

Wherever you may be, would you believe that you are still a Dear? It is funny, to think and know that I have to use my ‘contacts’ to find out about you, where you are. Why do you think I am doing this – this trying to reach out to you? Well, sadly, I did push back my emotions into the darkest corner of my mind; dark, but they remained softly lit, happily lit; aloof from sight, but bright to the brim.

I went for judging an on-the-spot creative writing contest yesterday at Ink, Blots & Pots. As I walked past the enthusiastic participants, I could not but hover for a second more on the face which had a striking similarity with you. I looked down at the page she was writing in. Her handwriting was even more evocative, those convent curls with individual full-circles over each ‘I’. Just like yours. She did not win the contest, Gargi Mitra. A Bhaswati Bhandari did. But, it wasn’t Bhaswati’s writing that I reminiscent over, now. Oh it was better than the rest, but Gargi had your face. A pure-geek-capable face. To put it squarely, she brought back the days of our youth.

I see you scolding Gargi, asking her to be more cautious towards her grammar. I see you packing her tiffin, same as yours, and going out for a corporate job, knowing how much you hated teaching. I see you having a circle of contacts, which I could not build while I was a budding author, having dared to speak with your parents seriously about our marriage proposal. I could not make use of a non-existent contacts group when I wanted to stop the wedding preparations and celebrations at your end. I died the death of a thousand sleepless nights.

Till, my book became a bestseller and turned me into a name.

Quite unbelievably, I am a contact now, a contact people wish to use. Magically, a phone-call from me ensures admissions into educational institutions or appointments with doctors. Athletes, artists and actors invite me to parties. Apparently, I am the face of the nation. You could say better. Do you remember my face? I am speaking of a time which dates back to decades.

Columns rather than kitchen helped me make my meals. A series of heartbreaks followed. This was mostly because I ended up thinking of you, I could not erase you. So I wrote Sita’s Wings. You may have recognized my name, and if you read it, found yourself in it. It is a fiction and does not adhere to truth.

You gave me wings, you showed me the sky to fly off to. Gargi’s face brought me back to the earth, one without you. Knowing you only too well, this letter, though of much value to a collector, would find itself shredded in the office dustbin. Or, dunked in the Mumbai sea. No sailor would revive it, no mermaid would find it.

It would wet the ink to be one with the waves till the sea starts unfurling my story, each time it touches the shore. Till your breath takes in the brine of my tears.

Still yours,

Reetarth.