9th May, 2015.
I was cleaning my bookshelf when it happened. I see, cleaning my bookshelf has always led
me to a miracle or something every time. Sometimes, I find a page of a
forgotten poetry; other times doodle in the back of a register from school. Today,
I found a register that wasn’t supposed to be there. On the first page, there
was written “letters” in blue ink. It was my handwriting. A couple of months
back, I was assigned with a task. To write letters for a person, for the next 1
month. It was agreed that we both will write and after the said time was over,
they would be exchanged. The person was leaving for a month and we weren’t to
contact each other, so this plan. Amazing was it, and I loved it, I still do.
Alas, the pages are no more there, I tore them off. Why, I won’t disclose, it
is a matter of irrelevance, but I will say that my anger got the better of me.
I just got to write 13 letters in all, where there was 33 to be written. After
tearing them out, I handed them over to mother to dispose them. I don’t know
what she has done with them, I didn’t ask, maybe threw them, or maybe kept them
safe, hoping. But funny thing is, even though they are not there anymore, the
pages, I remember each and every letter in their exact form. It is like they are
in my brain and I can print them off I remember them so well. I intend to write
them down because I want to. At least, I do not forget. So, here I am. This and
probably the next 12 blogs (maybe something else will be in between, I cannot
guarantee) will be the letters that I wrote to the person I adore and respect
and love. Remembering Goethe, here I am, at a risk of exploding my brains out,
but then… so, shall we?
Letter 1.
“29th October, 2014.
Dear _________
Well, the salutation sucks I assume, I cannot quote Byron.
And do forgive my handwriting. As you can see, the stationary is of a
ridiculously low standard. I was hoping atleast the pages will be bright, but
the stores were closed and I had this spare register only. Well, whatever
serves the purpose. Do mind the doodles on the last page.
So, this is officially the first letter, if I forget about
the last two, the yellow diary page and the white sheet that I gave you the
other day. I know you must have tucked them away in some book, you’ll find them
when cleaning your bookshelf and one of them will fall at your feet, you’ll sit
down and read them, and a slight smile will be there. I know because we both
have this same heart for these silly little things. We both have this fetish
for such things; remember your box of diary under your bed? And I know you. I know how beautiful your
smile looks when you pucker your mouth in to stop yourself from bursting. A tear
in your eyes, and that’s it. Maybe that is why…
Okay, I will try and keep this one short, because I see my
handwriting is going into a paraplegic mode, and secondly, I really do not have
much to tell you tonight. I did some research on Google, searching for the
letters by celebrities to their loved ones, I found Oscar Wilde, Napoleon,
Franz Kafka, and Edgar Poe. And damn it woman, they were so… but I guess if I
start taking inspiration from them, I lose my own individual idea. Really, I
did not see the point when you asked me to write letters to you when you are
gone for the annual Sabbath. But then, you never asked me anything. Well apart
from the tickets to Prague, which I will, but really, you never ask. You asked
for this one thing, this is your first “abdaar” and I cannot say no to you. And why shall
I? You did not ask for the moon and
stars, just my feelings on a ruled page. I gave you the only thing I had my
ever entropic brain and cracked heart, how hard can it be giving you some pages
from a month of my life which is so complete now? I intend to give you more
than these. I intend, and I will give you all that my heart has. But for now,
this/these letters.
Anyways, this is it for tonight. For the time being, this is
only what I can gather to write for you. I will write again tomorrow. Hope you
are having a good time with yourself, I respect that.
Love you my lady.
R.B (signature)…”
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