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Love letters
Oh, great
NOW I have to write to you? And leave this message on the bloody fridge? Gosh and here I thought life would be about romantic messages tucked under pillows and floated in bottles across seas...
Where the hell have you been? Where are my presents?
It's Valentine's, you know! At least give me something I can show my colleagues at work. Remember last time, Lara showed off the diamond her boyfriend gave her. I bet you don't, coz you weren't even listening.
And I'm not taking "What's all this about Valentine's yaar? Love is everyday things..."shit from you.
If a diamond's too much, some other jazz will do. You don't care much for anything anyways, except your stupid night shift job, huh?
I messaged you... six times yesterday to tell you there's a special dinner at home. So were in the middle of your shift, but you can respond, specially since it's nearing Valentine's. And I care. I hope you notice that. Otherwise your socks and undies wouldn't get washed on time.
Remember that first year... I knew it was too good to be true... red roses, champagne, the lace, and chocolate. Now if you come home early from your shift without lipstick on your collar, I'm supposed to be happy, huh? I'm supposed to think my husband's the clean one and me The Lucky?
By the way, I got a credit bill for some shopping you did at The Big Shoppe last week. I hope, and you better bet on your life, that it's something for me.
I don't want a regular big fight on Valentine's. It's supposed to be about love. I hope you know that. I hope you know what that means. Sometimes I wonder if you've strayed or turned gay... Gosh or haven't I even noticed? Forgodssake, just let me know_ Hahaha! I can't imagine even that, it would be too funny. You can't even love a woman, how will you manage with a_ hahahahaha.
OK, if activists read this, they'll kill me for being politically incorrect and insensitive. Shit! Why am I even bothered about being right? By the way, I had left a grocery shopping list by your table yesterday. Were you able to manage that? The maid didn't say anything, so I assume it's done.
Anyways, happy Valentine's. Your gift's in your computer table drawer. Pick it up when you please. And if you have nothing for me, I'll show you how a woman can celebrate!
Luv,
Yours till tonite
Not tonight, darling
IT'S A little past 12 in the night and here I am before the computer, trying desperately to write to you. I thought of you all day. Well, let me be honest and tell you the truth: I thought of you between taking calls in a fake accent from American customers.
Tomorrow (today, technically) is Valentine's Day, and like all boyfriends in the world, I have something to prove, right? But then, why is my head so blank? Is it the computer screen, I wonder. No quills, no scented papers, no smell of jasmine wafting through the window into my apartment room. All I have here is a blank screen staring back at me.
The same indifferent screen I saw all day long in office. Yes, this very screen is also kind enough give me such wonderful options of showing my eternal, undying love to you. Every time I thought of you, I checked the Net for an appropriate quote, an appropriate poem to send you. That would be easy. Just cut and paste some emotions. And there was no dearth of lines — from Shakespeare to the boy from Cincinnati who sent a poem to the website .1 second before I logged into the Net. Some of them took my breath away. Some say the world will end in fire,/ Some say in ice./ From what I've tasted of desire/ I hold with those who favour fire. Frost's lines. I want to do to you what spring does to the cherry trees. That's Pablo Neruda. Incredibly wonderful, aren't they? But they aren't my lines. They aren't from or of my life and yours.
So what do I tell you, at this midnight hour, when the world that expects me to politely swallow all derisive laughter at my unsupressable Indian accent by the day demands a lyrical confession of love from me by night? I don't have a choice with the former, won't you give me a choice with the latter, my love? Forgive this as a small act of rebellion. Do I dare ask you to love it too?
On the nine o'clock news
Dear X,
These last months you have taught me the joys of a boyfriend who is never late. Always honest to the best of your knowledge. Never hesitant to pick up the phone and call. Always trying to do better, running to be in time, articulate and clear in what you say.
Your kind of man (not necessarily mine). The TV reporter. You'll kill yourself to get in place for the nine o' lock live, never a second late, run up Rs. 30,000 monthly phone bills to verify facts from your sources, keep your words concise and clear. When I haven't seen you for days, you send me a cheery text message asking if I miss you. Just as I expect a surprise visit and an impromptu dinner maybe at Little Italy (which has been postponed continually over three months now)_ you tell me to watch you on the telly.
You're the new breed of man, X. It's hard to forget the breakfast you promised to cook for me one Sunday morning two months ago. I dragged myself out of bed to get to your apartment and rang the bell for 10 minutes. Neighbours gave me strange looks as I insistently hammered at the door. Finally when I called you, you were miles away, in Kanchipuram.
But you'll always be there when I need to see you. Bang on time. On the nine o'clock live.
I purse my lips...
Dearest douv,
Really, you're lucky I cannot whistle. Lucky, because every time you pass by, a whole road Romeo-ish personality pushes to the surface, and it's all I can do to keep from pursing my lips together and blowing this absolutely cheap, demeaning whistle. And here I am, because of my inability to do what I so urge to do, writing a love letter.
You make feel like I must abandon every single bone of decency in my body, and dump all convention of politeness in the bin, along with perfumed words expressing a spic-and-span love. I, my dear, yearn to be a crass fool. Knowing very well that you will not turn away in disgust as one reacts to an obsessive maniac. I know you smile at me because you think I be an idiot. It isn't just inhibitions that you make me shed, but it is shame and bashfulness.
I could blab on till you threw your head back and laughed. Not giggled, but laughed big and loud. And as you did so, I'd sigh content in knowing that I'd helped add a few wrinkly laugh lines to the corners of your eyes. If you were prim and proper, my dear, neatly holding your hand in front of your mouth while you shook in controlled laughter, I couldn't bear it. It's because you find any floor good enough to sit on, and any water good enough to drink, that I love you. It is because you unknowingly shift to the local tongue when English fails to provide a good enough word.
It is because you've given me an inside smile. My cheeks hurt. Thank you. Struck
For you
My love,
I wish I could touch you every minute of the day. Instead, I content myself with tantalising images that tease my thirsty senses. Do you know you have a hundred different smells that kindle a million conflagrations in me?
I wake up thinking about you; I go to sleep with you in my head and my arms. I breathe your breath. I see what you see. I listen to what you hear. I feel what you touch.
You ignite me the way you turn your head. The way you smile. The way you cough. Clear your throat.
I should be with you. I want to be with you. I should have been born with you.
Yours
The poet in me...
Come Valentine,
And I simply love to dine
by myself.
I don't mind even the bad
wine,
cos that's absolutely fine.
For you're no longer in my
heart,
God! how I hated your barf
breath.
And every time, you
smiled,
I could see those gaps in
your dentures all the
while.
Some times I wonder why,
I loved to see you cry.
Then I waited,
And waited with bated
breath
To write horrible verses,
Past those hearses
by your untended grave.
On second thoughts
Charles dear,
Now why didn't it occur to you THIRTY years ago????
Love,
Camilla
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