Miss Barsin Manekshaw,
Boys in my class wet their pants after Jacky Fernandes, Nargis Fakhri or Katrina Kaif in a manner which I fail to understand. I mean here you are, don't they see, good they don't. While I will be doing Marketing, you must be specialising in Finance as your surname suggests and you must be a couple of sems older, but what the heck. I mean, how can one keep their eyes off you?
I am sorry if this has so long sounded creepy, I had no intention of it being so. Miss Barsin Manekshaw, how cruelly alluring is your name itself, speaking of secret chambers of society one must only become a part of to know about. What must your name mean, since you aren't married to any Alexander already, great or otherwise? What is the secret behind your infamous reticence and your famous scores?
Each time I see you, in one new sunglass after the other, your clothes never repeated, I am convinced you are not the kind of woman we, middle-class brains or sensibilities are used to, but then, you casually pat someone's back, or laugh with a clap, and snatch someone's diary...you see, these are things again, we are used to -- making you somewhere an extraordinary commoner.
Miss Manekshaw, I pine to know you, of you, be with you, around you; not like one of the mouth-lapping puppies but as a deserving friend, and I am sure this letter says nothing of that sort, but I can grow up to be anyone you wish to. That is my skill.
I do not profess irrational love. I do not profess irrelevant craving. Barsin, your name sounds like the rain. All I wish is to get wet in it.
Your humble onlooker,
Chittaranjan Mukherjee.
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