My Dear - 38
To S
Dear S,
What is it exactly that we accomplished in those hours in Madras? I don't have any memories from that day. I haven't forgotten any of that day, not enough to make a memory of it. I was heartbroken. That Punjabi Boy had broken my heart. You were dazzled by V, sitting in that elusive United States. Like eels, they were slipping out of hands and leaping back when they felt like.
At night over that miserable messenger, you had typed out (hiding from your boss) lyrics of a Telugu lullaby. That summer I spent in the hills, I called you instead of called Punjabi Boy.
When I talk of you to others, I am told my eyes fill with something. I hop onto your blog, drag every word onto my soul, and sometimes see glimpses of me. When V left you, and you had that inevitable series of "love failures", I felt guilty for being in a relationship that made me happy. While I wanted you to stop loving me, (as I urged myself to stop loving you), I didn't want you to forget me. It was selfish of me. But it was the only way I could preserve a part of me that had grown old beyond recognition. I sung Gulzar's songs to you at the Marina. And you had sent me little tears in emails for months after.
With all my just-ending teenage angst, six years later, I now know that I loved you. But more than anything else, I am grateful for all the kindness you had in your heart for a girl of 19 years. Love is relatively easier than kindness.
Love
K
Dear S,
What is it exactly that we accomplished in those hours in Madras? I don't have any memories from that day. I haven't forgotten any of that day, not enough to make a memory of it. I was heartbroken. That Punjabi Boy had broken my heart. You were dazzled by V, sitting in that elusive United States. Like eels, they were slipping out of hands and leaping back when they felt like.
At night over that miserable messenger, you had typed out (hiding from your boss) lyrics of a Telugu lullaby. That summer I spent in the hills, I called you instead of called Punjabi Boy.
When I talk of you to others, I am told my eyes fill with something. I hop onto your blog, drag every word onto my soul, and sometimes see glimpses of me. When V left you, and you had that inevitable series of "love failures", I felt guilty for being in a relationship that made me happy. While I wanted you to stop loving me, (as I urged myself to stop loving you), I didn't want you to forget me. It was selfish of me. But it was the only way I could preserve a part of me that had grown old beyond recognition. I sung Gulzar's songs to you at the Marina. And you had sent me little tears in emails for months after.
With all my just-ending teenage angst, six years later, I now know that I loved you. But more than anything else, I am grateful for all the kindness you had in your heart for a girl of 19 years. Love is relatively easier than kindness.
Love
K
posted by ammani at 9:12 AM
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