A Letter To You.

Dear You,

I wake up in the morning to feel that I am part of some vintage movie reel, dying while it fades, fades, fades. Fades until someone, an evil grin, a malicious smile, it rips apart the memories, takes the reel and runs with it through evening winds screeching behind it, wanting it back, wanting it back, wanting it back. Oh, I am vintage. Oh, you are vintage. Black and white, black and white. I see you again and again, in black and white, in dimmed colours and distorted sounds; screaming - screeching, loud and clear. And you. You come along and say and say and say. I write and write and write letters I will never send, letters my ink will never know, nor eyes will ever read. Letters of patience and of goodness still trying to breathe through screams, through thumping silence. Thud, thud, thud. Silence. Do you hear it? Vintage as ever can be. You give me words that I could say with beautiful grace and I could twirl around and around and be honest. Completely honest and brutally simple, brutally heartbreaking, brutally beautiful. Just like a vintage movie reel. Oh, you and I are part of it all, part of it all, part of it all.

But no - the later hours of the day arrive and there is a burst of colours. Have I told you again and again and again - that there is sepia and it is wavering. And then the sunshine from the heavens, the sunshine from my present, the colours of the now- the yellow and the bright and the pink - it bursts forth and it is too much for me to take. Madness. Madness in me. Madness in my colours as I try to run and collect them all - the yellow and the bright and the pink - but oh, how the sepia chases me. How the black and white runs after me and corners me and lets me scream while I hand over my colours so it can devour it completely, completely, completely.

Dear friend, so far I have not stopped even once to erase these words or to think over what they are or what I have written, and it feels good. It feels good to not stop, to run free, to be unheard, unread, unheard, unread. It feels good to have fought and fought with myself until I am dying inside of me. No, there is a part of me that dies and comes to life so it fills me completely, every inch of me until I am consumed, consumed. Wasted away, oh how they waste me away. My wonder. Your wonder. How we waste it away.

Dear friend, I am a universe. I have told you. I have. I am a universe and I will never cease to be. You will find me; you will always find me because I am there. I am there while the clouds cry, I am there while the sun shines, I am there while people die and people live; I watch it all until I am a part of it. Until I start living what you and they are living. I am a part of it. I will never leave. No, not completely. You will hear a trace of my words following you around and you will hear me when you won’t. You will see me when you won’t. Oh, yes. That is to be human. To be, to be, to be. To be forever.

Perhaps these are what my thoughts have been as I have let them jumble up and about in my head. Perhaps this is what they’d be like if I ever meant to write them. But I didn’t. I meant to write to you. This is for you.

Thank you for listening.

Love,
Me.

i do not know how
or where to sit and break -
perhaps on a mossy, wet log
quite as helpless as i
but the nearby town shall be busy and
the sun will be high -
and beside a quiet lake
quiet as inconsequent as me
i will talk to the waters – unheard all the same
of how the wind does not hear me when
i plead and i say –
won’t you take me away
won’t you take me away

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

If I was not afraid to say it, I'd tell you that I dream in little pieces, in little secrets that hold me together and my fixed gazes at nothing at all, when even the clatter of hammer and bricks and drills cannot drown the sounds out  - my sounds. And if I was not afraid to tell you, I'd tell you how I cannot stop wondering about the wind because it is nothing at all and I can still almost see it and it takes my breath away. And if I was not afraid of sounding insane, I'd tell you that the colours - the blur of red and blue and silver and even a sudden stroke of yellow - they've come to stay and with grace, because there are some of them that do not go away. And I see them, some of them - the red and the blue and the silver - even in the lazy shades of summer.

Dear friend, you can call upon me when you need me but call, so I know. Because you will look and you will look around and wonder where I am and what I am up to. And I'll be right there, hiding in the warmth of my own thoughts, needing to be called upon and afraid that I will never be. And I could tell you that I look into words like I look into the mirror, and that I taste them again and again, and that I look, I search for the splits like stubborn cracks on dead earth. So I can know. And decide. If they were meant for me or not at all. But I will choose to be silent because I am afraid that you will walk away and never call upon me. And I will feel as if I chased away those calls along with you. And I will be still and take each wonder and take it as my own. For I am of the world, I am of the heavens, I am of destiny - and what will always belong to me is my wonder. Dear friend, no one can take away the wonder from me because I will find it. It will always be there to call upon me. I need not be afraid.

Yes, I need not be afraid. But I afraid I am. Although I have come to accept that what does not come my way was never mine and there is goodness in God's decisions. Sometimes I think destiny is only a matter of where you and I will get - and how we get there will be ours, and only ours to decide. Perhaps there and only there lies the struggle and our choice of choices. And in the end, it does matter. Because no matter what anyone tells me, what ever I may bring upon myself - even the slightest bit of emotion - it is mine to give to myself and take it away as well. I choose to harbour it when it is a part of me, and I choose to be okay when I let go of it. And God? God will give me the strength to hold on to what is right.

You must forgive me for my incoherence, dear friend, because I have wanted to shed some of these words so that they do not weigh me down. If I could paint, I would paint for you a rose, patiently sitting on a  window sill somewhere in the city so that when the rain would die away a little, you could go out in your rain coat and boots with a telling smile and find it, because it would be meant for you. And you would, after searching and searching - a lot of searching - you'd find someone kind enough to open their apartment door and examine you strangely, then burst into a smile. And they'd tell you to walk right in and get what was rightfully yours. Have faith. There are people out there still. Meant for you and me.

Dear friend, there is a page in my notebook that tells me that you and I, we are life's little jars. That life will pour into us a mix of smiles and tears and cries and laughter and red roses and sunshine and it will pour it all in. In different proportions, at different times and different mixtures but we could all be the same size. Jars. And when I find a friend like you, I will pour some of my rainbow-coloured-life-in-a-jar in yours, and we will share and share to live. We will be okay.

I have a lot of hope still. I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed. And this time, dear friend, truly - I thank you for listening.

Love,
Me.

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

Things have quietened down a bit for a moment, because there are no thumping sounds of hammers and bricks and drills hard at work outside in the summer breeze anymore. And I feel good again because I have been part of this Friday's colours and I have smiled and collected laughter in return. So I must write to you once more because I have been wondering far too much for me to be at peace, and I trust you to keep these thoughts safe for me.

There have been a lot of moments lately when I have found myself looking at what I have never seen before and listening to what I could not have imagined. And it frightens me for the most part because it is like being handed a new thread altogether, to untangle and make a pattern out of even though I am unfamiliar. I do admit that unfamiliarity makes me squirm, especially when I find it in people and things I've come to know by heart. And how it interferes with how I have painted them with colours and words and lingering images. Then there is distortion. But I must not be ungrateful. I have come to know that you and I, we are infinite. And that there will always be a lot to find, a lot to make sense out of, but that's okay. Because there will be so much more to find wonder in, and so much more to learn to love. And I will never grow tired.

Yesterday night had been silent so I'd been thinking. About April Letters. Because it sounds fascinating to me. April Letters. To hold a soft, brown parchment - the colour of Patience, and to read and to keep reading, in the light of the piercing sunshine by day, and beside a quiet lampshade in the evening. To read of Lady April, as she pulls in the summer heat behind her and stops at the sight of you at the window to smile at you, and how with a graceful wave of a hand, she reminds you that she cannot, she will not stay for long. Dear friend, I cannot cease to believe in beauty and you mustn't either. And if you'd like to, we will go looking for it to find us. In April and always; forever more.

I have something else to tell you, too. That I have found a lot of power in prayer. And while that may not sound too profound, I must tell you that I have felt like I am listened to. Incoherent as my prayers are, I have learnt to mean them and believe in them before they come pouring out on the prayer mat. I have learnt to believe that I will be given what I was meant to be given. And then they work. I may not get what I want but things happen for the better. And I am grateful. Maybe I just had to learn to believe in my own prayers. I do now. I feel at peace.

And I do not believe that life is unfair. God is good, because what I do not get, was never mine. You must understand that life hastens to bring good to other people too and there are so many people to take care of. You must understand and you must never lose hope. Your time will come when your time will come.There is a lot of justice still. The floor beneath my feet, the roof above my head. You and I, we're infinitely blessed.

Thank You for listening.

Love,
Me.

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

The March winds have been kind to me and have brought me new words and thoughts and a lot to think about. I can hear the evening settling on my city because the birds are loud as ever as the Sun is handing over the reins of the day to the night. I've been happy, by the grace of God and I've been able to soak in colours. The yellow of my bed-sheet, the chocolate brown skin of a friendly stranger that smiled at me, the brand new white paint on my wall. And most of all, I have not wanted to be a part of it, to melt into a rainbow and be eaten up by the big, brown earth. I've wanted it to be a part of me so that I can give it away and keep some for myself. And use in doodles when I sit down and draw in a dark class-room with a friend that I love and a friend who'd like to see what I draw. And what I write in a notebook that helps me collect colours.

And I have learnt not to underestimate Moments. They hold together a string of words or a gaze or a brilliant sight and hand them over to me gently, so I can take it, and keep it safe. So that it becomes a part of me. And what I do and how I think. And you and I, we've been part of Moments. And we could go on creating them if we say what we mean and learn to Look. For the good. In people and things. You and I, we are full of wonders. Wonderful.

It never ceases to fascinate me how brilliant people are. And can be. We are part of stories we have not written and part of tales we do not know of. And without us, there'd be a gaping hole in a plot we did not build. God works in strange ways, and I have faith. That somewhere out there, a story book, were it written, it would not be complete without me. Have faith. There is magic in the air. I could reach out for it and it would grasp me. And let me know that I am worthy of being part of this brilliantly intricate memoir called life. You and I, we're worthy of being part of God's fable. I am grateful.

There will be good days. I believe in them.

For wonders, for people who see greatness before it is noticed, for the moon and for ceiling fans, I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed.

Thank You for listening.

Love,
Me.

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

I've managed to stay awake for the most part of the day and even though this sand storm has made me retreat into bed, I am grateful that I have managed to make the most out of the day. But there is always time to day dream. To think of finding refuge in dripping, red telephone booths in the glorious London rain and of pressing my nose against the cold glass with foggy breath and seeing the world and seeing the city and seeing the melting colours as the rain wants me to see them. But I'll open my eyes and thank God that there are things that wait for me. The smell of freshly baked bread that holds the noise together on a street in Istanbul. The pitter-patter of flip flop-clad feet finding adventure in a dingy street hiding in a corner of Bangkok and the wonder in the eyes of a garland-selling boy resting his head in front of the shop nearby. And sights and sounds, come as they may, I will collect them and I will keep them safe and let them melt in the spaces between these words and somewhere, someday, someone might come along and realize that there is Wonder. And we will follow it, you and I. And it will cater to us words of hope and of love and we will bask in every bit. I will smile, and you will too, because we will have, as we always have, wonder to take and wonder to give. And wonder to search for all over again.

And you know those little fragments of obscure memories? A diminutive remain of a forgotten conversation, a blurry vision that still lingers, a little sound you just happen to remember. Maybe those fragments are what Strangers are made of. Seemingly insignificant thoughts that belong to someone else, some place else. But they live with us, you and I. So I sit and think about whether we've left our marks without meaning to, too. You and I, we could have spoken so that it was remembered and we could have Done what we have always Done, so that it was seen by people who we did not mean to show. And it makes me think. But to remember that what I speak and what I do, a wandering gaze or a listening ear could take in and carry for the rest of their life - it makes me want to do good, to be good.

It's that time of the year again. My books are slowly piling up beside my bedside as finals approach. And I have also grown too big for my blanket, so you must believe me when I say that I am slowly making progress and before you know it I am going to be glared at for laughing too loud. But I like laughing, it is the most alive of all the sounds that I can make. And I feel good about how I have been wanting to laugh, that I have been wanting to do things. And most of all, I've been able to let it sting for only a while, and then let it go. And hum 'Allah is enough for me' while I get ready for prayer. It is nice for a change and I do not mind it one bit.

The television is making a racket outside and I hear laughter so I think I will go sit with everybody else outside. And for family, for wonderful souls, for an old picture that I know the story behind, and even for a horribly flavoured chocolate that I could not finish, I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed.

Thank You for listening.

Love,
Me.

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

Friday has been loud as it always is and I am home alone for a while which I am not used to. It's quiet and I can sing as loud as I want to. But there's something that has been weighing me down. It holds me back from the strangest of things and the things I love and the people I love. Most of all, it holds me back from words that I want to give away to you because I do not want them to belong to me. And I could have sat on the stairs staring at the garden and heard the lazy whines of a lawn mower and closed my eyes and envied the sun pouring it's heart out to the rest of the world. Instead I choose to be still. To stand in wake of a journey that I know I could make. But I choose to be still.

It has been strange. It is like I am seeing the world through a black and white photograph. The kind that I am not a part of. A quiet, serene photo of seemingly purple vines crawling up the walls and some very happy people standing beside it or hugging a tree or giving the grass company while it stares at the sunlit skies, some squinting in the sunlight, but smiling. A photo that is tearing on the edges and fading where my eyes scrutinize it the most. A picture of people. Still. Standstill. Smiling. And sunlight. And fading yet. Like seeing the secrets of what Used to be smiling wryly through the present. It is strange. But whatever it is, I do not feel like a part of it.

And most of all, I have been wondering about things and people that I have seen. I have seen things. And people. Upclose. I have seen life and words and people wearing down other people. And I have seen the strongest of facades because I have known the fragility trembling behind them. And I have known exactly what people's lips have moved for in a silent prayer, and I have known their prayers by heart. I have known people's tears closeted in prayer, in prostration. The breaking voice of a burdened throat. And I have known it through people, not through myself. Maybe I will, eventually, because I am to grow. I am to feel. But more than anything else, I have known that there is relief, that prayers are answered and that God lets you know that He is watching. In one way or the other. That there is hope and I promise you, that there is happiness. And I believe in it, because I have waited on it with other people, for other people. And it has come good. For a moment. And in time. But it comes. And I am grateful.

People shouldn't be afraid of giving away. Because when the best of things are given, they find themselves back to you. In different shapes, in different colours, through different people. But they will return. If there is one thing that I am sure of is that God will not forsake me. Have you ever bowed down on the cold sand holding the orange sun on it's horizon and felt the wind bow down with you? Have you started a prayer and felt like you could not stop, that your prayers are infinite? I have. And through them, through the calls of prayers that sound through my neighbourhood and the purple skies that cannot decide which colour to melt into next, I know I am not alone.

I hope people know that they are brilliant. Because they have words and hands and ears. And at any given moment, at any given time, they could speak a kind word, they could smile a kind smile or invest in the Good inside them and everybody else. For brilliance, for greatness - I am infinitely grateful. I am infinitely blessed.

Thank You for listening.

Love,
Me.

i will open my eyes to 

the sounds of summer and 

the drilling heat will pierce through my sleep 

and unfinished dreams -

but i will curl up and close my eyes inspite

and let it sting inside, because i will know then

that the winds do change and the trees,

they learn to smile again

but i, i've learnt by heart with unnerving ease

to trace the breeze

right back to you 

then let me be, and let me stay

let me build with air, but you may

stop by and tilt your head with a frowning brow and wonder, too

upon breathing in a thought or two that belonged to me

but found you instead -

until then i will swirl fingers through the orange of a candle light 

and let the rhythm of the flicker speak to me 
with quietude 

with hushed tones

about everything 
i have never known

A Letter to No One.

Dear You,

There is a beautiful breeze wafting through the window like a long lost friend that does not need permission to barge in with a broad smile. It is calming me down and letting me hear the whiny roars of a rickshaw and somebody humming a ridiculous tune near the water tank. The feel of braided hair lazily twirling to the sounds of the wind makes me smile. And forget for a while. That there are things that have to be done and soon. I do not like confinement. Not one bit. I'd rather run free, through daffodil fields in the rain and let me be washed away. Because I love rain because it does not question. It is mine and I am her's, and she washes it away and does not ask why or if or what. She just washes it away.

And I pulled open a drawer and the sight of untidily piled up letters made me smile. So I stood there and read and I read them all until I was sure that they belonged to a different time, that they were permanent paper-stamps of moments of miscellany, but they are Mine as ever. A victory, it feels. Because time is always in a hurry to take Moments away from me, and here I have proof that I have lived them. But you and I, we can never defeat Time. It can whisk away people and places and it can, quite easily, whisk away their traces too. But that's alright. Because that is what hearts and minds and love is for. To hold on to things that cannot materialize and to keep in view everything that is out of reach.

It is strange. It is very strange. To think of sounds you know by heart, of a familiar laugh or a string of familiar words that you have not heard in quite a while. It is strange to almost hear them. To almost see them. Almost-feelings. But then they slip away with a quite cackle. And even though it makes you feel quite helpless, it does not make you sad anymore. A half whimper, a half laugh. And you let it be. I let it be. And I walk past these thoughts like I am being sent away. But not with resentment. Rather with a wise word and a telling look that urges me to keep walking and know, that if I ever need a shade from the heat of the Now, I could always find it in those almost-feelings. Maybe that is why it doesn't make me sad anymore. Because they are only almost-feelings. Those almost-feelings that someone else would call a memory.

I think I will go inspect the kitchen for a bit, then step outside with whatever supply of food I can find. It's been a nice, quite day and for peace and what it is brought by and what it brings with it, I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed.

Thank You for listening.

Love,
Me.

A Letter To No One.

Dear You,

The Sun is still up and I feel strangely content. Whatever it is, I am grateful for it. The sunlight's crisscross patterns on the paper lamp have been still as ever, and on my way back from college, there is the blurry sight of a picturesque lane, with a tree stooping forward as if to say hello and an adorable little Volkswagen waiting right underneath it. It reminds me of autumn, shedding colours, even though the spring breeze is here and alive. Sounds and sights and scents, they matter. Things matter. If not their presence,then their absence certainly does. What could we do if the evening sky decided that it would rather have the heavy sound of gnawing cranes accompany it instead of the cheerful birds? What could I do if a monotonous, black car replaced the Volkswagen? Because I could not imagine a Land Rover smiling at me. I should be thankful, really.

And there is something else. People have been abrupt. I have been told to control my Thank Yous, I have listened to an unexpected outburst of someone explaining how they liked how someone else held their hand tightly, and I have looked up from doing work to see blatant tears, just on the verge of sliding down. It has been strange, but it made me think. People really do crumble behind smiles, and you would never know. I would never know. And I am determined now, to listen and to see, and to inquire occasionally if a given person at a given time is doing alright. You and I, we can feel. If not for others, then for ourselves. And to look at a person, and to sit and think, they've known anger and ache and silence just as well as I have. To know that they need forgiving just as much as I do. To know that they could stutter a list of reasons just as well as I could, if only I would listen - it is astounding. I want to understand and most of all, I want to be kind. I really do. Lord help me.

There is a lot of Taking going on. The night takes away the day and the day takes away the night. Ammi sometimes comes in the room and takes away a little tear and this pack of crisps is taking away my hunger. But if I look close enough, things give themselves away, too. The March winds, for instance, because they let me hear what I want to hear. And they let themselves be happy when I am happy and they let themselves gasp sometimes when I am a little down in the dumps. I can hear what I want to. But people usually do.

And in my notebook right now, there are two people having a candid conversation. One of them said, "I thought you'd sense I want to know Why, not If." The other replied, "Then ask what you mean to." I like these people. For love and for the oceans and the flowers and the starlit sky that sing it's songs, I am infinitely grateful, I am infinitely blessed.

Thank you for listening.

Love,
Me.