Today, I am writing the book, rewinding my life in front of my eyes, and pausing each of the scenes to pen them down. The pressure cooker is whistling on one of the Saturdays, where my mother is cooking Rajma – Chawal for me in the kitchen. The romantic music is making my fingers flow on the beats. Mobile phone is kept on silent; I don’t want to affect my concentration.
I stood up and walked towards my cupboard. Few novels lie in stack at one corner; few read and few unread. ‘We’ used to share the best of the romantic love stories; reading together, looking into each other’s eyes when the romantic part in the novel starts. Secretly or unknowingly, I loved this way to reading together. Sometimes, we wished that our lives were so simple like that novel only. She used to kiss me when she read and so did I in my turns. It gradually became our habit to do the same. There had been none of the weekends in those days when ‘we’ didn’t met for reading the romantic tales. Often, she brought some Maggie to eat over. We saw dreams together. We made numberless promises. We loved every morning, because we knew what they were bringing for us. We knew how much we needed each other and we stayed together. Often when I see her, I love myself for the way I felt about her, every time. She used to write her name on my hands, in her cutest way. I loved when she used to drop a blank text over my phone. We walked whenever any of us was sad. She often used to hold my hands when we walked and say, “Until and unless I am holding you, we will make it”. I loved the feel the way we touched. I still can’t stop myself thinking about her. And this is my problem. Thinking too much, for the dreams and for the future, I will never have. Turning over the countless pages of the novels ‘we’ shared, I found a
letter in the same.
Dear Rajeev,
I knew, you will find this someday. Remember, how we used to write for each other after reading every book? I secretly, put this letter one day when you went to bring something that day. I just want to confess something to you through this letter. I wish I will marry you someday. I wish I tell you all this when you are in front of me. I never had that much guts (in your words) to tell you this. One thing, even if we don’t stay together in next few years, don’t feel sad because I know, our special memories will always bring a smile on your face. The fact that we are no longer together will always cause a pain to both of us, but you will stay forever in my heart until we meet again. Now you are reading this letter. I should tell you that I got married in my very young age when I was 13. My father was a drug addict. Each night he came drunk, and used to fight with my mother. So, he decided this to do this for money. My mother was helpless.
The boy name is Chetan. He was 15 years of age at that time. In our village, the child marriage was a trend. Nobody was against it. My father ‘sold’ me to Chetan for a mere amount of Rs. 15000/- . On my first night, he abused me a lot and treated like and prostitute. I couldn’t handle it. I ran away to home and told my mother everything. I, with my mother somehow escaped the village and came to the city. My mother worked for hours and I sat alongside. Now, today, I might have left you. I am now safe wherever I am. But above all, you taught me how to love and live. I never wanted to keep this secret this from you. I hope, you will forgive me one day. I never wanted to do this. Maybe, we broke up. Actually, I broke up for this reason only. Sorry. Wish to see you smiling always.
Yours and always yours.
I stood up and walked towards my cupboard. Few novels lie in stack at one corner; few read and few unread. ‘We’ used to share the best of the romantic love stories; reading together, looking into each other’s eyes when the romantic part in the novel starts. Secretly or unknowingly, I loved this way to reading together. Sometimes, we wished that our lives were so simple like that novel only. She used to kiss me when she read and so did I in my turns. It gradually became our habit to do the same. There had been none of the weekends in those days when ‘we’ didn’t met for reading the romantic tales. Often, she brought some Maggie to eat over. We saw dreams together. We made numberless promises. We loved every morning, because we knew what they were bringing for us. We knew how much we needed each other and we stayed together. Often when I see her, I love myself for the way I felt about her, every time. She used to write her name on my hands, in her cutest way. I loved when she used to drop a blank text over my phone. We walked whenever any of us was sad. She often used to hold my hands when we walked and say, “Until and unless I am holding you, we will make it”. I loved the feel the way we touched. I still can’t stop myself thinking about her. And this is my problem. Thinking too much, for the dreams and for the future, I will never have. Turning over the countless pages of the novels ‘we’ shared, I found a letter in the same.
Dear Rajeev,
I knew, you will find this someday. Remember, how we used to write for each other after reading every book? I secretly, put this letter one day when you went to bring something that day. I just want to confess something to you through this letter. I wish I will marry you someday. I wish I tell you all this when you are in front of me. I never had that much guts (in your words) to tell you this. One thing, even if we don’t stay together in next few years, don’t feel sad because I know, our special memories will always bring a smile on your face. The fact that we are no longer together will always cause a pain to both of us, but you will stay forever in my heart until we meet again. Now you are reading this letter. I should tell you that I got married in my very young age when I was 13. My father was a drug addict. Each night he came drunk, and used to fight with my mother. So, he decided this to do this for money. My mother was helpless.
The boy name is Chetan. He was 15 years of age at that time. In our village, the child marriage was a trend. Nobody was against it. My father ‘sold’ me to Chetan for a mere amount of Rs. 15000/- . On my first night, he abused me a lot and treated like and prostitute. I couldn’t handle it. I ran away to home and told my mother everything. I, with my mother somehow escaped the village and came to the city. My mother worked for hours and I sat alongside. Now, today, I might have left you. I am now safe wherever I am. But above all, you taught me how to love and live. I never wanted to keep this secret this from you. I hope, you will forgive me one day. I never wanted to do this. Maybe, we broke up. Actually, I broke up for this reason only. Sorry. Wish to see you smiling always.
Yours and always yours.
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