Love-Letter (XX)

Beloved Beatrice,

They have sent me away, in the name of ‘inspiration’ to this mad metropolis called Calcutta, but how would they ever believe that it resides unaware and plump, in Shillong itself? My various uncles and aunts have agreed to put me up with them for the duration of this vacation and the city quite agrees to the spirit of celebration. It is decked up in lights, shows and sales. I could easily do a paper on the soaring psychological sales during festivals if Economics ever allowed that, but, I am destined to be brave this morning and I decided, what better than to tell you bravely, of brave things I wish to do.

Belonging to the minority community back in town, yet being well-off, is a handicap. My parents could not afford another blotch in the name of their son pursuing fashion studies, or music, like the ‘hippies of North-East’. Shillong must be looking so quaint at this time of the dawn. It is barely 6 am, and the roads are yelling out Sunday special treats through the curtain of cold. What is it there? A veil, I presume. Curving and bending and lapping up and seeping in. Everything that comes its way. Strange, how we take to things once we are away from it. They may be thinking I am gay, but I love you. Oh, there, it is out. Perhaps even more difficult – loving someone who is a Catholic Christian and the beautiful daughter of one of Abbu’s dearest competitors.  

How fierce must be this feeling, B, that I had to be sent off. One of the last things I do remember is having confessed to Ammi about you and then being chained for a week to that dogged driver of ours and finally waking up in a pool of blood with a threatening sense of not having you in my life. I overheard Doctor Uncle tell Abbu in all concern that I ‘need a break’. How do I explain that all I need is you? I even heard Abbu tell him a lie, and that is perfectly abominable – a lie. Our religion does not allow such ethical downfall. It allows love. He said you do not even exist. A little removed from complete consciousness, I laughed. Ask me about B. There she sings in the choir, stuck in the front row, her eyes lit up like the little yellow and red boxes on the Christmas trees. Her boots hugging her calves and her fingers tapping by her side to the rhythm, while another set firmly holds the paper. There she is, faintly aware of me and passing me an unsure smile in between the carols and there she is, B, in all her hilly tenderness. How could they say you do not exist?

Inspiration is a sad thing to hunt for when your uncles and aunts keep feeding you too much sweet. It dulls me. I do not even respond to the fact now that most of them are new faces, but all too kind. B, I had even lost track of time and given up on any hopes of returning to you or my room. Till I glanced out of my window to see the lights, shows and sales of the city, advertised right across. It must be Christmas. Why do I have a beard? I never liked it. Have I aged with uncles and aunts, while all I wanted was to age with you?

The brave thing I did – this dawn I woke up to find the door uncle snoozing. I sneaked past him and came into this room. It belongs to an older, better Doctor Uncle. I am at his comfortable chair now, writing in his letter pad with his pen. How funny, it has so many things written under his name, where he got his degree from and where he got his other degree from. Dear B, if we ever get married, you can take me back to Shillong or to Edinburgh (where he got his degree from) and I can spend my life listening to your carols. Life will be Christmas then, everyday. There are some white and orange coloured sweets in his drawer which I feel like having, so I will end now. And B, tell them, you are here. They do not believe me when I say that you have come to rescue me and are building a plan under my bed!

I love you.

Azaan. I seem to have forgotten the rest of my name.