Love-Letter (XXI)

My Dearest Nikhil,

Space for latest chart-busters on my phone have been ably replaced by unending photographs and one to-do app after the other. I am no longer the woman you had once loved, who knew a song in its entirety within two seconds of it playing. You must have come across my name, an upcoming children's author, and I make enough out of it for me and my little one. Of course you know her, my Chinkipie munchyplum; we are still undecided about her good name, having shifted from Niharika to Lekha. So, you see, Nikhs baby, I call her baby now, and write short stories and cook simpler meals and know more about expectorants than about exotic wines. It does get a bit queasy in the mornings, even if I have the help around. I am changed, supermom and all, they say. I do not disagree.

Ever since I shifted base, I do not have friends flocking in on birthdays, an occasion to stay up and uncork bottles. Nice young years they were, joyous and eventful, balloons and wrappers, pizzas and pastries. Last night I felt the difference. Your wish was there, constant, yet distant. I was there, detached, yet happy. No balloons and wrappers, pizzas and pastries; a cup of coffee too many, and on the menu, Chinku's favourite -- khichri. I thought of you after the dinner and a cartoon show on TV, everything about you is still constant, your choices, your style, your life -- without me. Is it good? Perhaps. Is mine? Yes. While yours is constant, mine is constant only in variations. But I am used to it now.

Except for the occasional business of missing you and thinking warily about how life would be, with you. Chinkie's food would be under your glance of nutrition, her winter garments needing to pass your idea of protection. I would have to undo my bra according to your sense of health hazards and keep teaching as the epitome of right profession. No, that would be too tiring, being under your undoubtedly great benchmark of goodness. Tiresome, boring, and rendering the love in between, useless.

So, here I am, thinking of you. Detached, yet happy. Strange are the ways of the world for I still sleep with your shirt on, and your chin beside me. Or, is it only what I wish it were? Who knows!

Throw the letter away, of course.

Loving you still,

Meira.