January 15, 2012

The Letter Never Posted


Dear Z,

How have you been? How has my Mumbai been? It’s been ages since I wrote to you. Every time I pick up the pen and paper, I realize I cannot stand the idea of writing one more letter to you. It never made any sense. I would never post it anyway.

But tonight, you know, I am in Beverly Hills once again. The ships are anchored in the horizon; the noise of the sea is drowned only by the melody of the piano and the occasional chatter of the family behind me, flush with their newly earned money.

You can always tell New Money.

The lighthouse down the beach sends out the signals to the ocean. The beam tears through the darkness, like ripping off a thin sheet of paper and searches for lost memories in the night. For the last hour I have been trying to get the beam of light on a picture and have failed miserably.

Like so many other things in life. Like us.

The candle flickers but fights on relentlessly. It refuses to die out. Like the times gone by. Ideally, the setting would have been perfect with a glass of the cherished South African Wine, a plate of cheese and some nice hand printed parchment and a fountain pen.

All that I have is a grapetizer, a broken ball pen, the paper napkin and a picture of us folded neatly in my wallet since the last time we met.

I was running by the beach today morning. The sun had come rushing in through the window and kissed me awake and somehow I did not want to disappoint the sun and so I ran – the black sand sticking to my feet, the wind racing against my cheeks; pretty much the opening scene from the Chariots of Fire.

Except that nothing was noble about me.

It’s funny though. We were as far away from water as one could be when we met. And the water in Mumbai is never something to write home about. But the waves seem to be singing our song. And when I listen carefully, the winds whisper the same thing.

The other day I was watching Adam Sandler’s Funny People and somewhere in the story an analogy was drawn between men and serial killers. All have this one girl that got away. I sometimes wonder why I ever wanted to get away. I wish you were a serial killer – explaining it would be so much simpler.

I wish, selfishly, at least I am “the one that got away” for you. We never had a story together. But still.

The grapetizer and the waves are having their effects. The family behind is getting unbearable. They stare at the only girl sitting alone at a table in this beautiful evening. They look to see if someone has come over to join me. They look.

Over and over again.

4 comments:

In-dus said...

This is fiction, right?

Shrutz said...

Lovely :)

Madhurjya Banerjee said...

Dear In - I wrote this while sitting on the exact setting that I described :)

Dear Shrutz - Thanks

In-dus said...

Actually I thought it was fiction after reading about you running.

Also, when are you back in the country?