Dear Tempt,

I think of you endlessly.

First in careless, sideway thoughts of old lanes that we once walked on (without ever knowing that we will think of it since) and rivers we took sideways photos in. In monkey paths and earthen pots, small notes and drunk detail.

And then again, in more frequent, pointed measure : did you like your coffee with sugar? did you wear braces growing up? what did you look like when you were a child? where do you want to be when you were all "growned up"? (what do your parents do?) : small, unnecessary questions that I should know answers to, had I known you the way I know other people - with time and casual distance. But you and I have only had our abrupt chats about nothing in particular and punctuated with little awkward silences that you call "good weird".

But no, you barged (and re-barged) into my life with your silk words and unreachable charm (how do you do it?) : first shy and distant and then flirtatious in ways I can only now see (in keen retrospect). And I have been basking in that shine of all things precious : of new love and old feels that emerge urgently, even if gently. I have tied myself to my phone, re-read your SMSs in the corner of crowded, nostalgic reunions and slept with my arms reaching for notes that you sent me by hand.

Yet, now that we have stepped back and I have had the luxury to think - I realize that I have not had a second to think it might be more you than me that has caused this crazy haze we find ourselves in. Perhaps you are just this glorious larger than life way, and I am who you are sharing it with now. Perhaps this is not because I am the One (or even that there is a One) or this is It (if there is such an It) but because you are all the glorious things you are and I happen to have walked into that happy maze of sweet confusion.

But what if I am wrong? What if this is not you and this is Us and this could be the most wondrous thing ever if I let it be? What if this is everything you say it is - right and perfect and the sort of thing that leads to yellow kitchens and copper pots - and I am just, out of character, in not falling for this piece of delicious romance?

I have only one explanation. For once, I cannot. I am content and happy in a working relationship that holds and heals and I cannot let it go. Not because it is working anymore and I think that has any more potential than you. But because if I let it go, I would have let go the part of me that is working.

And with named children and this newly emerging sense of a stable self, I need to hold tight that part.

But I think of you. Endlessly.

x

Dear 02138,

How long do you have to stay someplace for it to become home? Does it need an amma, slobbering dogs and the bed you first peed in (ew)? A large garden where you scabbed your baby knees and an old, browned hose that used to be pink, lying silently on the side? Old friends who are now on unrecognizable new ground but still smile sideways when you mention their dirty fingernails in third standard? Maybe a school playground you broke a swing in for good measure?

Or can towns you first fell in love with (in) qualify? With hot tea and summer afternoons of pins and needles? Maybe towns you first needed to wear a jumper in? With their old gullies and polluted wisps of morning blooms that always take you back to the start? Perhaps cities by the sea, with red rooms and warm lighting? Ones that calm and collect, claim stake and stalk?

Or maybe it has nothing to do with any of this. Perhaps the connection lies more deeply. In old brick buildings that set you free, sea bedded airports that make you smile every time. In small coffee houses you wrote your real words in. In picture windows that looked at green, frozen rivers, cloud making factories and allowed for toe curling chatter. In basement offices with no good paper and a bad lock system. In thin dorm rooms with molty carpets.

When does it become OK to call it home?

Is it enough, then, if it has cobbled streets, frozen yogurt and your favourite Lobster pizza? Or do you have to fall clumsily on said streets (check), hate and then grow to love the famed yogurt (check) and recommend the pizza even if the last time you had it, it had too much salt (check).

You will be a certain special home in my heart, 02138.

xxx

Dear New, Do you Know?

Do you know that

i see you be

in purple haze : that mists

around perfect smiles

that melt and molt?

Do you know that

i see you in levels too high

and in gold more grand

than you can know yourself?

Do you know that

i see you in places

where we have seen happy:

blissful, even all coloured in candy pink?

Do you want to know that

i might wonder anew: when the gold pales,

and sometimes also:

when the haze clears and the candy stales;

If

it is really you i see

or

if it was

a perfect i wanted it to be.

Dear Fire,

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

It sounds depressing - the sad tone, the inevitability of loss, the complete, devastating knowledge of trading in fire that could have lasted through to pilgrim years for comforting, easy love that noted grace and beauty. And worse - of how, now, hiding from the stars, the love lost, is too far gone to get back and love that way again.

But then there is hope. Suddenly, when there should have been none.

There is the "when" - to suggest somewhat that this is not what is : but, instead, a warning of what could be if one were to choose only spectators of beauty and grace, over willing sadness. And the (early?) knowledge that losing that possibility of fire is a larger threat than immediately imaginable.

Unhide?

xx

Dear Distant,

Let this be clear - at most levels, I hate distance. As much and in the same ways as most other people in long-distance relationships. 

In personal context, I hate how Sunday mornings become a minefield of nostalgia and yet we (Ok, I) have to play phone tag to share small nothings. I hate how I need to wait for minutes on end for you to pick up the phone so I can share the said small nothing and how by the time I actually have you on the phone, the moment is gone and I do not want to share anymore. I hate how melodramatic that makes me feel. And I hate more how stalkish and inadequate calling you fifteen times (even if in 10 second intervals) to convey impulsive, sweet nothing forces me to be. 

In (what I think is) more general analogy,  I hate more how I have to tell you over said telephone about how great it would have been if I could do all that I do on my own with you (I do not always want to sip wine and watch Closer with my platonic, bald best friend) and how much we could have done together if we were in the same place (waiting 45 minutes for a table at that Giocomo place is not the same without you) : especially when we both know that its more the choice of being able to do these things than actually doing them that I miss. To add to this, quite frankly, I do not understand time differences (what is it these people who subscribe to logic and science justify as a world clock and why does it exist?). 

Yes, I hate distance.

And yes, despite my hate for all that distance does, I was the girl that had a high school long-term boyfriend that I began to date not through the six years I knew him, but in the last summer month before I left home (and him). I carried an important (and what then, was a very serious)  relationship as prim baggage into a college that was 500 miles away and, predictably, drove myself to relationship denial when my first shot at love failed. Of course, when I recouped, it was not to the known arms of convenient college romance that I turned, but instead, to difficult, tough distant loves that were held in place by phone calls in the middle of the night and sweet letters that found me in remote college towns with often inaccessible postal codes. These long distance loves paved the way for what I now call my relationship in-expertise, right until I said yes to the first guy that asked me to marry him - only after a summer of remote dating and a week before I placed three continents before us. 

And for this, I have only one viable explanation (even if I am afraid it does not hold me in very promising light). 

Like many self appointed new-age citizens of the free (transitory) world, I hold people and memories closer than geography and most (if not all) of my important relationships operate through virtual realities that scan many miles and  (often,) multiple planets. I have often argued (mostly, with friends that are concerned for my personal depth and well being) that this is not choice but rather a set of unavoidable situations tailored by chance related sequences. More personally, I have convinced myself of some sense of nobility attached to loving people despite distance and difficulty and a sense of truth in holding on to a love that offered no immediate comfort.  

Initially, perhaps there was joy in the anticipation. In some sense, there was reason to believe that if the love was not there because it had to be there, it was there because it was meant to be. But rose ideology aside, I think there was joy in the manufactured sense of importance. I needed to believe that these loves were larger than they were because if I did not believe that, I had no material to spin with in my head. And without spinning it in my head, there was nothing to hold on to with the heart. 

But after a decade in remote, unsuccessful dating, it is unclear to me if this search for a difficult hold-on is nobel, or even necessary. Are we tuned to search for loves that are difficult because of our perverse need to have people prove worthy of our affections? Or do we need to prove to ourselves that we are capable of being loved in these difficult ways to feel special? And irrespective of reason, what is it that ties it together when we have no real end to the remoteness? My remote intimacy issues have maimed my sense of being in love most of my adult life. I have loved in ways that I still contend are strong and yet, it is possible that I have had these strong affairs (selfishly) not with people but with my own overactive imagination. 

And if that is the case, I am in no position to claim relationship expertise with you. I cannot tell you that I need more from this relationship and a commitment that is stronger and truer because if I am honest, I am unclear what that entails. I cannot tell you that you should hold on to this even when logistics pulls us apart and I wake you at 2 am to share drunk flirt talk. I cannot tell you that you do not love me as I do you. And I cannot cry when you tell me you do not know where this goes because, clearly, I have never really known the trajectory paths of my own pasts. I cannot grudge you as I so often do for letting go of something before it even was because I have failed to deliver every time a remote relationship has had the potential for fruition. 

And yet, in spite of (despite?) my awareness of my own relationship inadequacies, I continue to think that deep connections are rare in a world where people know their multi-syllable-Starbucks-latte but shun making choices that call for personal confrontation. I think people in their twenties don't make easy friends and that childlike honesty in adult relationships is something that needs to be stored away in strong, happy closets to help salvage a lot of filth that life routinely sends your way. As a result, when I call you and deal with the reality that this is difficult and takes effort, I am in fact showing you more honest emotion than I have in the past because I am choosing to confront the not-so perfect perception that is the reality of an adult relationship - I am choosing you, over my working imagination. 

So, please bear with me through my drunk accusations and seemingly insincere tirades. Forgive me for expecting through a haze that you dismiss as naivety because while you are as difficult to love, the least of our issues is logistics. While the distance continues to rear its nasty head, it does not make you unrealistically better for it. And this is, contrary to the way it sounds, a good thing. I do not need you to be away to realize I want this because I want you when you are here and when it is difficult and when you place the brown towels over the pink.

And because I have discovered that I love you when you are here, I am asking you to bear with my dramatic anxiety and calls for reassurance. I am asking you to bear with it not just because this is rare and happy even when it is difficult but, selfishly, because I am willing to confront my own teething pains of finally being in an adult relationship. 

To non-distant difficults,

Me. 

Dear Hugger,

Thank you. I keep thinking I should write this to you. But I cannot. Noone really can.

How do you write to an almost friend and say thank you for holding me? Not making out with me - not talking with me - not doing anything more than just holding me? How do I say that when you lose yourself in your morning's morals? How do I say that when you lose yourself to your now known doom?

Just so you know - I do not know you any more than I did that drunk Tuesday (Sunday?) when I walked into your room, anxious to sit with you through dinner, talk inanity. I do not know how you work or what you smile for : how you think or how you learn. I know not if you like or not like me and I sure as hell do not know if you knew I was not who I usually am when I spend time with you and your cruel jokes.

But I know this - you were kind to me. And when you held me in your arms, I was safe. And for this random act of kindness, I am glad. And thankful.

Even if there is no way I can let you know how very thankful I really am. Or how very happy you made me. For that , there is this note in oblivion - small tributes to beauty and peace and solemn silence. And for that, there is the memory of you. And the way you held me.

Thank you.

The Lifejacket Guy

On the first week of my (already too long) holiday, I allowed two close friends to convince me to go on a road trip. I hate road trips. I hate the car ride. I hate having to make conversation when all I want to do is throw up vile, motion-fed goop. And I hate having to be told that I am anti-social. But it was a water trip. And I love the water. So I said yes and took my vile humour, many many bottles of water (that never stayed cold), my beautiful camera and a potential to share the dil chahta hai attitude that my friends clearly, enviously celebrated.

But it was not what my dil chahtafied. I want to say that I warmed to the idea of having close company the last few months before I left home. But the truth was I was a complete, unexplainable grouch. I snarled every time the music changed to a tune I dint know and/or like. I sulked when the sun found its way through well-tinted glass of a luxury a/c car. And I hated the driver for not knowing (or pretending to not know) tamizh.

As a result, nothing was beautiful to me. Not the moss green roads. Not the chance of sighting wildlife in the middle of a highway. Not the mountains that sneaked behind every old, sleepy village. Nothing.

Nothing, that is, until we first sighted water.

For when we did (one day into our trip, on the banks of Kali), nothing was was not beautiful. With the clean, black river and the promise of being able to ride her, everything nothing was irksome anymore. Not the sun that shone harsher than it did in our silver Chevrolet. Not the fact that I was in a swimsuit that looked infinitely nicer in the trial room mirror of the store I bought it in. Not even the gawking, croaking, ghastly birds.

And just as soon as I found the river and the chance to salvage what I had resigned to be a forlorn trip, divine interference tainted the balance. To enter the river and ride the white (black) waters, I had to wear a lifejacket ensemble, complete with a yellow helmet.

I dont know about hydrophobics, but for those of us that love the water, having plastic shield us from an environment we love and thrive in, is not only suffocating and infuriatingly restricting, but also hateful. Sure, it is safe. Sure, we need it to keep us afloat. But its also easy to hate when you are being forced to wear one whilst riding a river (you think) you know you can handle.

And I hated it. I hated the lifejacket. And I hated its clumsy, suffocating promise to save me.

Perhaps I should introduce the lifejacket guy before going too far with this. This guy is every mother's right guy. He is safe. Involved (without being irresponsible). Funny (without being crude). Honest (without being tactless) and strong (without being overbearing). He walks the dog, helps set the table and holds your hand in front of the father without it ever seeming offensive. When he has not been found for us (by fat armed auntys that insist they know the way to a successful marriage - yes, even as their own wilts to a sorry end with thinner, longer nosed secretaries), he finds us.

And when he finds us, we find ourselves. At least, we find the parts of ourselves that wants to settle down, build picket fences and raise chubby babies whose drool we know we will have help cleaning. We imagine the brass pots and the yellow kitchens, clean wooden flooring and the enlarged, matted posters that we want on our bottle green walls. We plan vacations and sights, draw names on the sides of our notepads and try saving email addresses with names that we think we might have should we (and we should!) marry this guy.

But (and this, like most buts, is a sad but), you see, when I was on that raft, cruising the white (black) waters, trying hard (and succeeding) to allow the sun and the Kali to make up for the fact that I had a suffocating helmet on, we reached a spot which our Nepali head rafter called the swimming pool. Those of us that could (and wanted to) swim, he said, could jump off. We were allowed to float free within range of the raft. And so long as we agreed to have our safety gear on, were allowed to swim the waters between the dangerous, lifejacket-needing waters.

Being the sort that always wants more (or slips to oblivion after foolishly trying), I put on my most persuasive smile and asked Mr. Gangotree (although between the two of us, I had seen more of the Ganga than he. He was a coorg rafter) if I could jump in the water without my helmet. After five required turn downs, he allowed me to kiss the waters and hug the sun without having to awkwardly float on the river on my back to fight my water claustrophobia.

Those twenty stolen, helmetless minutes were the best minutes of my trip.

Not the safest. Not the rightest. Not the most honest. But they were the best. Because they allowed me to be. exactly as I wanted to be. without question. without reason.

This is not to say that I did not wear the helmet after the twenty minutes. Or even that I did not want to. Safety is good. Important. Desired, even. But when safety is thrust upon you when you think you dont need it, it becomes something a settle instead of all the glorious things it should in fact be.

As a result, my lifejacket guy is both the right guy and the settling guy, with disarming consistency, depending on when it was you met him in your life. If you were waiting to be rescued at sea, searching for the one warmth that could get you, he was your right guy. If you were a swimmer at the banks of a river that was 12 feet deep at worst and the only access you had to it was if you wore a helmet, he was your safe, settling guy.

And so, for those of us that dont want that lifejacket guy when he comes into our life and are really fine with clean, unshared rooms (where we can stack the walls with snippets from our ex-ridden past), the lifejacket guy is the suffocating helmet ruining our sun basking on handle-able waters.

Perhaps we know that somewhere, we need to know this guy to save ourselves. We know that we will be out of the currentless pool soon and when we are there, we can only hope that he will find us too. For no faded orange-yellow is non coveted when we see it for all the beautiful things it really is.

But for now, in the swimming pool we know we can handle, it is enough to be there. not thinking. the sun on our eyes. water waiting to be squirted. helmetlessly swimming.