Drum

Sweetheart,
Today, I went to the beach. I am currently in Mangalore and I hope you are in the best state of your self. The sand here is white and fine. I want you to come visit this place and see for yourself. It is so white and fine that you might confuse it with old salt. I can imagine you making a joke about sea water being saline and therefore those are not sand but actual salt, and I can imagine myself looking into your eyes and finding that glitter of happiness which I so crave every hour I am away from you. When I stood on the sand and into the foam of the very same sea water, away from the noise of the city and the port, the splashes of water reminded me of you. I looked at my feet being washed away and I was reminded of how once I washed your feet when you had stepped in the mud while coming back from Liberty Cinema after the late night August show. I was reminded of you more because I felt the water carried your touch and the wind your breath, for it is the same sea that elegantly touches your big city of Bombay. I wish you were here. I miss you.
Yours.

—

Hello,
I had my first Ballet class today and I am sure by the end of the course, I will not have any toes. My father slapped me today for being late. The same way he did when we went to Liberty Cinema. I cried for one hour but now while I pen my words for you, I do not have the slightest of sadness in my head for I know you are here with me, looking at me and my words and smiling at how foolish I sound. I want to be with you too, in Mangalore, in Goa, in Ratnagiri – wherever you go, I want to be by your side. I actually went to Girgaum today with an empty bottle of Old Monk and filled it with same water that might have touched you. There I saw a man propose his girl, in the middle of the crowd. Do you remember how you proposed to me?

—
She is beautiful. God, she is beautiful. I cannot wait any longer.

– Don’t you think an old library is not the best place to spend an evening together, more so when you are here just for a day?

Her nose-ring. I think I can actually kiss that nose-ring.

– What are you staring at? My nose?

– No. Nothing.

My heart was pounding. I still remember the book – The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass. Not the best book for the occasion. In that alley, with tall and long bookshelves on our sides, stuffed with hard spines and wriggly silver-fishes, amidst the smell of books and ink – both new and mostly old – I knelt down on my left knee, lifted the book, looked up at her pretty face, and.
—

I am sure you are the only person in the world who would have proposed with The Tin Drum. And I would be the only girl who would have accepted that. But you know what, I didn’t care and I don’t care. Just like that beautiful, beautiful book and the earnestness of so many books around, your love for me was and is true. It is as true as the content of The Tin Drum that – even if all the printed copies of it are burnt – will remain in the minds and memories of people who have read it, forever. When are you coming to Bombay?
Yours.

—

Moonpie,
When I read your letter, I could imagine you crying, on the floor. I could imagine you doing it for hours because crying is a sign of bravery. Brave you are to let your emotions out in a material form, however fluid it may be. I am not so brave so I have quit from my job today. I cannot stand to fail. The fear of failing, I cannot stand so I sit. I sit with no job at hand and money so less that I cannot afford to dream of coming to Bombay. But I will, soon. I am thinking of applying for the job of Clerk at the city’s Tobacco Factory. I do not want to travel. I want a life of stability where I return to my bed-sized room on time before the sun sets, smoke a cigarette and read a book while listening to Raag Malkauns on the Radio that you have gifted me. I am being overtly sad now so let me also remind you of a happy incident when we were expelled out of the Music Shop because we started dancing to Pal Bhar Ke Liye Koi Humein. Those were happy times but we will have even happier times, I promise. I am sorry I forgot to write about what I felt when I came to know about your ballet lessons. I think it is very nice of you to explore and develop new talents. I firmly believe it is not the blood of our parents that results in the talent we possess but our sweat. So, you will one day do the three turns of Pirouette and open your arms in the end which I will mistake for your call to embrace me and I will come, come running at you only to make a joke of myself. You will be excellent at it and therefore, even after making a joke of myself, I will embrace you and then cover ourselves under my old brown overcoat – our own little world.
Yours.

PS – The Tin Drum was not a conscious choice. I would have picked Lolita if it had been there. Thank God for that.

—

Baby,
What was that red blot on the letter? What was it? I do not want to know anything other than that. Also, I have moved to my Aunt’s place in Sion. Please mail me your letters at this address from now on.
Yours.

—

Cuteness,
That red blot is nothing. The treatment is going on and the doctor says I will be fine in two months. I was diagnosed with a certain kind of throat infection. I am alright. Please do not worry. I have also secured the clerk job I mentioned in my last letter. The pay is low but the time, for myself, is high. I have already started saving money to come to Bombay after I get well – third month from now. Why did you shift to your Aunt’s place?

Wait for me.

Yours.

—

Before I could tell him why I moved to my Aunt’s place I received another mail from him. This time, it was a box. When I opened it, there lay wrapped in plastic, his old brown overcoat. There was also a note in his writing –

Our own little roof.

That was the last mail I ever received from him.

—

I could have entered her room had I not seen what was actually happening inside it. Her face was covered in a man’s overcoat, and she was twirling around with her ballet music on the gramophone. Then the music stopped and she removed the overcoat.

– Sorry Aunt. I didn’t see you coming.

How could she? Under the overcoat and behind the tears, she held herself and a book whose title was The Tin Drum.