Sudha's father,
I became a beggar through love, fine.
But really, I'm no beggar. Tell me, does a beggar even know how to love? You truly thought me a beggar and kicked me, tried to throw me out.
Waiting for you, I've ignored those who pray in their hearts just to see me once up close. And you, thinking my time cheap, have made me wait and wait and wait...
I talk so much with you. Heart open, soul open, even my spirit laid bare. I want to say more and more.
Know this—I'm chatty only with you.
There isn't another soul who hears anything from me beyond 'yes' and 'no.'
Yet you think with pity, 'How kind of me to put up with this girl—nobody else gives her the time of day!'
You'll never know that some people still call from different numbers just to hear me say 'hello'! And they keep calling...
You don't know. You know neither the truth nor the lies. You know nothing at all.
Yes, you know plenty of news from home and abroad, plenty of learned things.
But you don't know me, don't understand me. You know many girls, but you know no woman.
Being with you has killed me; my soul is dead now. You won't understand this now—you'll understand it years from now.
Why later? I'll tell you.
Men take much longer than women to grasp these matters of the heart. And by then, you'll have suffered a loss. Years later, when you finally understand, the person who loved you like a madwoman will have been cured of her madness—she'll be just a corpse then. That day you'll die suddenly... just like me! The body will live on, but the soul will die.
Then you too will wake up at midnight and say, 'I'm in such pain, Kaberi!' I'll laugh heartily and reply, 'Such emotions don't suit you at this age—go to sleep!'
Then you won't want to go out with friends after work anymore. You'll feel the pull to come home, to return to me.
Rushing home, maybe one day you'll find me deep in conversation with my friends. Another day you might discover I've gone to my mother's without a word.
It'll go on like this, keep going. No one will see the volcano in your heart, but sitting at my mother's house, flipping through Mahasweta Devi's books, I'll sense that fire's heat perfectly. "Better half," they say! Ha ha ha...
Just as I couldn't commit suicide for fear of not having proper reasons to show, you too will be forced to live on, helpless to write two fitting lines in a suicide note to explain your death.
Even to die by choice, one has to concoct so many stories!
How strange! A person forced to die while explaining themselves to themselves must, in the name of a "suicide note," craft explanations even after death to answer 'Why did you have to die!'
Needless to say, you won't be able to fabricate any story as excuse for dying, just as I couldn't.
For that time of yours, I'm leaving behind a diary I'm writing. You'll sit and read it. How's that?
Even sitting at my mother's house, I'll wait for your messages. After reading the diary, you'll text through your tears, 'I love you, Kaberi! Come back.'
I'll roll around laughing and say, 'You're rather late to the party...!'