The Ravings of Existence

Sudhir, do you remember...how we used to write together? So much has changed with time, and yet the letters we wrote have remained suspended in an unwavering intensity, again and again.

You were cruel once—I wept for six straight days...a terrible fever came upon me! In the dead of night my eyelids would grow heavy...and I'd look out suddenly at the window and see the rain falling. Still, my heart found no peace. After that, as long as the rain fell, I stood in it, drenched.

That time I was alone, utterly alone. After being soaked by the rain, my body would shiver with a strange tremor, an odd sensation would ripple through my mind like waves breaking loose, and I would go mad wanting you near me—what did I do to myself! Something terrible?

Sudhir, from that day on, for so many years, I didn't let a single tear fall from my eyes. Now I cannot cry—my eyes have gone dry, and blood runs instead.

You know, for a time only thoughts of death would come, and the obsession with writing about you has grown so old! You had accepted my world, and you became like a habit to me—I made you a part of my very existence...and that's where the mistake was born.

That day it came to me: what good is my living?—I didn't know the skill of controlling emotion. How I would go mad for you!

How many of my letters have you read until now, Sudhir?—every one of them is dead.