I don't have a single envelope. No one writes me letters or will—not that kind either. The other day an invitation came from Meghla's school, in one of those thin yellow envelopes we remember! I never liked the color yellow. I don't know if it's the instinct of those who devour memories, but touching that yellow envelope's yellow, I grew a little nostalgic—I won't deny it! I tucked the scribbled envelope away in yellow memory.
Of course, I never had fantasies about letters coming and going. That's reckoning from drowsy eras. But I do write letters—yes, I do. With keyboard's help on white screens, two-finger chatter drops sounds here and there. In desolate silence when the night wakes, opening the wardrobe reveals a tender banana-leaf colored sari crushed beneath sighs... no, I don't have such a sari. I do have one in night's black with indifferent gray at the border. Anyway, kohl-rimmed eyes, sari wrapped round, a small torn bindi tucked on the forehead, scattering gentle light—the mood of word-filled pages and envelope-stuffed letters; this joy that flows from the heart's love! I want to lean closer and whisper, All this happiness you hid behind gentle melodies! Feet dipped in the Jaleshwari, see—letter-writing night awakens.
No, I'm not that drunk on imagination. That time simply doesn't exist! Weary eyes always seek gaps for sleep's refuge; disheveled feet crossing thresholds of dreams—where's that leisure! When time visits home I don't neglect hospitality—colored pencils, white paper, all sorts of antisocial hobbies, books, forests and jungles, and one Lacey. And yes, don't you dare ostracize Lacey!
The personal truth is she's broom-tailed, respectable but actually deranged, highest degree-holder but truly epileptic—my Lacey is the countless yet only girlfriend of Mr. Justin Timberlake Merger Esquire! Lacey's a bit of a chatterbox; this happened, that happened, words fountain from her mouth. No, no, I'm not an indifferent mother. I say, Lacey, my golden girl, settle down a bit now! Justin's mother Mrs. Pastor doesn't look upon you kindly at all.
Who listens to whom or doesn't—I don't know. But I can tell half-grown Lacey pays no heed to my words. Grass grows in human bones; cedar trees sprouted in mine long ago—no more age or rocks and stones left, understand!
Anyway, when have I ever listened to anyone! One day, trying to draw a bindi on my forehead, I mistakenly crossed the border and went north! We laughed so much that day, both of us! She lovingly named it 'torn bindi'!
Then one day, I left everything behind and came away—the torn bindi has been standing there ever since, holding her hand on the northern path! How often she'd say, put a torn bindi on your forehead, I'll spread the torn part of my heart right there! I'll sit, you beside me too. You'll write me, I'll read you—love will live forever in letters as ours! The winds from both sides will mingle, touching foreheads, descending through night into our laps! I'll find shelter, you'll find shelter, then we'll become each other's home in secret.
And I—never once drew a torn bindi to adorn my forehead. I see that picture, the old me, torn bindi in letter's envelope. You and I, in the torn bindi's depths on the forehead.