The Letter

My Dear Ashim,

This letter might come as a surprise to you, especially in today’s age of emails whatsapp and phone calls. But more so, maybe, because it is from me. After like what…23 years? But then I aways think of you and me as a thing of the past, of glory days and happier times, of honest ways and a simpler life. When words inked on paper left their imprint deeper than borrowed quotes on whatsapp.

If you still continuing to read this then let me begin by saying I am fine. No I am not on my deathbed, lamenting my life, romanticising our past and seeking closure at the fag end of my journey. Nothing so dramatic. At least not from me…you always know that…right? As I sat by my window this morning, after sending off my kids to school and the bigger one to office, I looked out and saw a beautiful pink lily had bloomed on one of my balcony garden pots…seeing that somehow brought your memories up. I remembered you and your youthful smile which never failed to charm. I don’t know why I thought of you seeing that beautiful flower in my garden, but then the heart has its own stupid reasons I guess. Anyway, how are you?

Can you believe that I have a college going daughter now? It still feels like the other day when I stepped into college, feeling all lost in a big city like Bombay. Being a small town girl it was my first visit to the big city and the prestigious St Xaviers College at that. Could I have been more wide-eyed!! Perhaps not as much as when I saw you for the first time…sitting in the canteen with your bunch of cheap-cigarette smoking friends. I still remember the yellow checked shirt and your faded blue jeans. You played the guitar so well, though the accent was more on style than substance. You were trying to impress the girls around you, no? I for one was impressed…

I remember all the tricks I had up my sleeves to get your attention all the while making sure my desperation to get to know you didn’t show. I think my hard-to-get, touch-me-not attitude made you look at me differently from all the other floozies who were forever hovering around the rich Mr Sinha’s only son. I was never like them and God how much I hated them. Yamini Kapoor and her posh-but-fake south Bombay accent or the annoying Jaya Sehgal and her condescending attitude to anything or anyone that even remotely seemed “a commy” to her. They were the types to hand around you and make trips to Studio 29 with you. I always wondered why an intelligent guy would want to hang around with their likes. But you did.

I remember coming close to you for the first time during our annual drama festival. I couldn’t believe my luck when I realized you were playing Troilus to my Cressida. But even harder than playing the part of Cressida, was playing the part of the girl who was cool. It was the hardest act for me when you were around me. What a hit our play turned out to be eventually despite you messing up crucial lines in the climax. Do you remember losing your cool at the fumbling prompter, Nakul? How he kept messing up giving you the right cues at the right time? I had a tough time controlling my laughter on stage. But we rocked it eventually, didn’t we !!!

I remember the first time you called me. My landlady Mrs Gomes wasn’t very happy allowing us PG girls (as she used to call us) getting phone calls from strange boys at odd hours on her telephone. Although the instrument was placed on the common hallway and we were made to pay for every call we made, she insisted it was her phone and those phone calls weren’t always welcome. I remembered how I was controlling my rapidly beating heart hearing your voice on the other end, trying to sound calm and composed as I replied to you, all the while turning around and checking whether Mrs Gomes was eavesdropping or not. Those were such beautiful days Ashim. Feel like yesterday.

I remember dragging you to Kyanis for our first date. You were convinced I was a commie weren’t you? Although you never admitted it, that was how you felt about me right? You could never see yourself, son of a privileged father from high society mingling with a distinctly left-minded oddball who came from “some Godforsaken small town”. If you can be honest today, you will admit that’s how you felt at that time…didn’t you?

But then you fell in love with the mawa cake and the chicken patties and watermelon juice at Kyanis. And me…It took you longer to realize it perhaps, but I knew earlier. Girls always do…wink wink

Do you remember our first kiss? It was in the dark of the Metro cinema, where we went more to make out than see the Hungarian film, you claimed you were “dying to see”…be honest now Ashim…you hardly saw the film or let me see it for that matter. Till date the thrill of that first kiss is something I remember like real. And no one has bettered that moment. Doubt anyone ever will. I miss you…

But what about our fights and arguments Ashim? It’s amazing how despite our attraction and love (or whatever it was) we had such different views on almost everything in life. Tell me Ashim, do you still believe in the virtues of capitalism today, the way you used to back in those days? I remember our heated discussions when you dissed Howard Roarke for the more “realistic” Peter Keating. I couldn’t believe you said that then. I always felt I would ask you the same question years later. Do you still that way Ashim?

Is this letter getting too long for you to read? You always had the attention span of a humming bird you dodo. Its lunchtime I’ve just finished sending off packed lunch for my husband at work and the kids at school. I am munching on a chicken sandwich and washing it down with an espresso as I continue writing. I almost feel as if I am sitting in front of you and talking…like we used to, sitting opposite each other at Kyanis, munching those cheese sandwiches. I could die for one of those sandwiches right now

Eventually I think things had to end, isn’t it? We were always the “burning out” type rather than the “fade-aways”, weren’t we? We were too different from each other to last together, too independent to curb each other and way too head strong to make peace with each other. Neither of us could put on a fake mask of compromise and carry on for the sake of this elusive thing called love. What is love? I still don’t know till date Ashim? Do you? Is it what I feel for Sanjay? If that is love then what is it that I felt for you? Because those two are worlds apart.

I hear from some of our old friends that you and Maansi are happily settled. Brief snippets about your son Arjun also come to me from Yamini (ok I confess I am friends with her now) whose son is in the same class as him. Sometimes I feel like picking up the phone and hearing your voice. Maybe I will feel the same kind of excitement I did at Mrs Gomes’ hallway. And then I ask myself, do I still want to feel those things? Do I want to feel anything at all?

Anyway, enough of my ramblings…if you haven’t fallen asleep as yet, do send me a note…I want a writing…and NOT a whatsapp message of phone call….do you understand dodo? A HAND WRITTEN NOTE.

Stay well Ashim, keep that smile and breathe…

Just remembered these lines by Emily Dickinson

I measure every grief I meet

With narrow probing eyes

I wonder if it weighs like mine

Or has an Easier size

Love,

Radhika.

The letter lay on a polished mahagony table, alongside a few bills and flyers, on the 21st floor apartment of a swanky highrise in South Bombay. Thankfully, some people still receive and read paper bills, so the chances of the letter going unnoticed and unread are slim…

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