Tuesday, February 24, 2015

The letter I did not send.

Dearest you who never listens to anyone,

I have never really figured out how to write letters. But I have wanted to write to you for a long time. There has always been more silence between us than words. That I believe is because we haven't felt their need. But sometimes I feel that I should talk to you more. That we should have long conversations. But when I imagine it, you are always sitting silently on the ancestral cradling cane chair, your eyes smiling at me, listening to my rant like you did in yesteryears. The last time we met, you didn't say much either. Except that you missed me and that the place was untidy and that you were surprised at how remarkably small feet I have for my height. I didn't say anything at all. I wondered if you thought that I was growing up to be a shy young woman or that I didn't feel the same about you. I have never known what to say or do when overwhelmed. You were but a shadow of the man in whose lap I had spent my childhood. The only thing that hadn't changed about you was the love in your eyes and the warmth in your smile.

I don't know how to explain that moment. To tell you how was it like to see you there, standing before me. To hear your voice, still the same shade of lavender. To look at you smiling at me..just the same. Like it was just yesterday when you and I would sit together for hours and I'd tell you jungle stories, when your shoulders were my throne, when you were Cowji, when Chawanprash used to be dismissed as Cat's poo, when teddies and toys used to be stuffed in the cupboards and still more kept coming, when you would touch the prasad to my forehead and put it in my mouth like I was a baby bird. When your Ranibeti was the proudest person in the world because she had you. What words would ever be so capable that I could sew them together to say something that would even come close to describing what went through my heart that day.

You sound weak on the phone these days. And you tell me you are keeping well. Are daughters to be lied to like this? Why do even try? You are so terrible at lying. What does your God have to say about this. Does he approve? And pray tell me what is his grand design? I don't understand, never have, never will. But you do, Your smile tells me you do. Your serenity, calmness, your abandon tells me you do. Do you know how scared I am? That I am the same little girl to whom you meant the world? That I still cry every time I listen to your voice on the phone. That your messages light up my soul. That my heart brims with pride when you still call me Ranibeti. That I howled for hours when Pa told me about the tear that slipped through when you told him how much you love me.

What do I tell you to make you realize that your presence in my life is something I can't imagine myself without. Do you even know how thoroughly spoilt and obstinate you are. Do you know how much agony that causes me? It makes me resent the God to whose will you have surrendered to so willingly. You don't even want to fight. Do you realize it makes me doubt your love for me. Don't do this to your daughter. I can't call you and say this because you are still as adept at emotional manipulation as you always were and you'll cut me short. I shouldn't be powerless over you if you love me as much you seem to. Your God's will shouldn't prevail over my love. There is too much you have to do. You can't possibly put it aside and go about being stoic. You can't keep doing this to everyone who loves you. You don't have the right to do it. Nor does your God.
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It has been six years since you left us. Here is the letter I wrote to you but did not send. For what fear I don't even remember. Here is the echo of the last words you said to me. That God willing we would meet soon. Here is the regret, the infernal regret that I decided to keep my visit to you a surprise. Here is the scar, of the day when you left me, a week before I was to come to you. Here is that haunting vision of your empty room. Here is the void in my heart, the vacuum where no sounds are heard. Here is the locked door, the key to which you took with you. Here are the parched dreams, where I would make you proud, where you would do my kanyadan, where you would name my first born. Here are the memories of you, strewn all over my sky, dissolved in the waters that call themselves my tears. Here is the wound that will never heal. And here I am... cursed to live with all of this and without you.

3 comments:

  1. Let it be, the letter, like the ashes of our beloved, let them be washed, and gone.

    A lovely letter. I hope he is in a better place.

    Regards,
    Blasphemous Aesthete

    ReplyDelete
  2. Let it be, the letter, like the ashes of our beloved, let them be washed, and gone.

    A lovely letter. I hope he is in a better place.

    Regards,
    Blasphemous Aesthete

    ReplyDelete