Poulomi's Letter

Dear Koustubh,

How are you? I write to you after so many days. Yet the moment I sit to write, I ask such a meaningless question, don't I! You once said never to ask how you are. How you were doing—without even trying to understand, somehow I always knew. Ah, those days! You gave me so much more than I ever asked for...even without knowing it yourself. Perhaps that's why my desires would sometimes turn so wayward! How mad we were...do you remember?

In those days we could say 'I love you' without hesitation. Neither of us had much shame or reserve, which is why we could reveal ourselves to each other so wildly. Though you didn't want to love me, I could feel you falling slowly into love anyway. Coming close to me and not loving me...that's not easy! Let me confess today: on that very first day I saw a kind of disbelief in your eyes—I knew you couldn't quite trust me. But from that day on, how you drowned yourself in such intimate faith in me! I never dared break that faith. Yet when I found a heap of grievances in your letter, I had nothing left to say.

You know, I still don't know what pull, what stubbornness first drew me to you. The next time I went, when you saw me and smiled, said a few words, then busied yourself with work in the next room—I was sobbing silently. I kept thinking: why did I come to you simply out of love! Why did I take this path knowing I wouldn't receive anything in return! I was always bad at calculations! But gradually, through time's turning, I learned from you that love which expects nothing in return still gives so very much! How desperately this lonely 'I' of mine tried to color your solitary hours—did you never notice? I know you did. You don't let on that you understand many things. But that I understand anyway, and that I don't let you know I understand—perhaps these two things you don't grasp.

Yesterday when I opened your letter and saw you called me a 'runaway,' I felt the smile that rolled down my cheeks pause exactly at the corner of my lips. Here I am, so far away, yet reading your letter full of grievances and reproaches and love made me feel guilty to myself. I wished I could sit beside you and say...here I am! You said you carry me in your pocket wherever you go! You're absolutely right! That's why even from this distance I can smell your scent perfectly. Your touch, your breath...everything clings to this body!

Sometimes I want to build a little house like the one where you and I used to live. The next moment I think: well, what's the use of building a house? Will building it bring you there, tell me! Your bright, spontaneous presence...will I find that? A house without you would seem like a cremation ground then! Better that you're wrapped around this heart's cavity—how is that any less!

I trouble you terribly sometimes. I know this. But tell me, who else would I trouble? Does going far away mean losing all rights? Will anyone else love you like this? Exactly as your heart desires, accepting everything...can they love you, tell me? You know perfectly well what a pure seat was prepared for you inside this thin, plain-faced girl! Never did I make the slightest complaint to you. I only wanted my love to survive as selfless love!

How am I? The answer: keep yourself well, only then will I be well. Your 'you' is not yours alone!

Yours,
Poulomi