Last Letter- Part 2

Dear S,

Today when I am writing this letter, I am not thinking about you but all the men you have been with, all of them who were behind you and after you, the flowers, the letters, the phone calls exchanged to choke you, to annihilate you. Yes, today I am thinking about all of it. But it is to you, S, that I am writing this letter, my last letter. I know you’re not the same though I admire you tremendously—or even still love you madly. But then love and madness are synonymous. Aren’t they?

Trust to what your heart will tell you,
For from heaven no sign comes.



S, perhaps you were too sensitive, too delicate to handle the insecurities of life and the shock of daily experience. But as you know I have always been a dreamer, a thinker, a typical non-go-getter. In my dreams, I always thought that against all odds a girl comes back to her true love, to the underdog just as you see in the movies. However, the contemporary brand of realism is something where extraordinary or something fantastic never happens. Realism is about reality and reality is about disappointments. Isn’t it? You might find me naive, or better still a loser. Yes, I feel that’s exactly what you think. No wonder, you ejected me from your life like a cartridge. But that’s alright. Even losers need as much of the sunshine as the go-getters do. Even losers know their art well, the art of losing, that is. And losers are as real a human being as any achievers are. I mean, I can’t change my true self just because it gives me disappointments. I wish to tell you what Miller said: “I have no money, no resource, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.” And, that’s my reality.

S, your letter came in like a frozen meat in the chilling winters. It was already quite uncomfortable; the bed became an icebox, and the bathroom a graveyard. And this letter! The only warmth I could avail was the little space around my stove. For ten days, I did not touch my computer, or any book; nor have any idea except for writing to you this letter. And now that I am writing I do not have anything to write to you.

S, I love anything that flows. I love everything that grows. So, let me pray that you grow, and let me pray that you flow, just like a river. Carry on, shine on!

As usual, free smiles and cheers from me...

Faithfully yours,

....

Last Letter

On a lovely morning of the first day of January two letters arrived at his doorstep. Letters at this early hour of the day did surprise him a bit. More so because normally only letters he received were letters of rejections that he got from numerous publication houses.

We regret to inform you that your story has been rejected.

Rejections did not annoy him anymore, it simply bored him now. However, it’s highly unlikely that any editor would read his story and write him back during holiday times. He casually picked those letters along with the newspaper that usually come long before he woke. But little did he know that these letters would redefine his existence completely. For a long while he stared at the two letters. And, for a long time he remained lonely, surrounded by his own thoughts.

Can you wait for me?
No, I can’t, she said.
“Why not?” he asked peevishly.
“Is there a reason why I should wait for you?” she said biting her lips.
Sooner or later I will convince you, he said.
No, you can’t.
Alright then, don’t. Go wherever you want.
Yeah, right.
And off she went. Just like that.

His thoughts deprived him of the reality just as the black cloud deprives the sun shine. And more often than not, his thoughts became his reality which he interpreted in a way he usually perceived things. He hung his head and then raised it again. His hands quivered but it was time to read them because life after reading those letters would be simple, very simple indeed. And it will remain that way forever.
The urgency to open the pink envelope was more even more than the other one that said urgent. And that’s what he did.

Got married last week. Don’t come—never, ever.

The words in front of him were clean and clear but the pictures of his memories got even clearer. It seemed as if he was looking at a rose, and the rosebush tore his hands. This all happened too quickly, and before he could realise his hands were bleeding.

Hah, now that’s a good beginning of a new year, he thought. What’s next?

Take good care of papa because he’s not going to live for long, mama said.
Mama, please don’t pester me with your mindless sorrows. I am busy.
So you won’t?
I didn’t say I won’t. I am busy.
Busy, hah?
I need to explore the world, he said.
Sooner or later you will realise. Go wherever you want.
Yeah, right.
And off he went. Just like that.

The word “urgent” on the letter bore a conspicuous tribulation. Reluctantly he opened it, carefully, not even neglecting the corners which usually get torn in the process. And he read:

Father died yesterday. Don’t come—never, ever.

He stared at those words, picked both the letters, started to tear it up, then changed his mind and put it back on the table, instead. He quickly checked the corners of his eyes to see if there were any tears prickling—there were none.
“Why am I not suffering?” he thought, “Why am I not feeling any pain or agony?”
Things that mattered were no more of any significance to him now. Life becomes simple sans mind, and then even love makes perfect sense, he thought. Perhaps he overestimated the power of logic. And today his senses defied his logical emotions of the hour. Slowly he got up, walked, and sat back in the chair again.

Things happened that were bound to happen. I could have just painted it differently. The colours would have been different. But picture still would have been the same. And that’s that, he said it himself.

Nobody knew what happened. He did not tell anything to anybody. He didn’t ask for help. But he knew. He knew that in this darkest bottomless pit of consciousness there are no thoughts, no anger, no guilt, no repentance, but only nothingness. He did not cry. He just wrote them back. He wrote them his last letter.

Just like that.


All finished?

No, not yet.Next is what he wrote in those letters.

to be continued...