Friday, 30 January 2015

To You, Long Eyelashes

(Back-story: It's hard to remember that most marriages are made up of love stories. It's the first fact we forget. I enjoyed writing this letter so much, because of the honesty and bravery with which a complete stranger shared their story with me. That's what heart is made of- honesty and bravery. I hope you guys make it to Italy, send me a postcard)

To You,
Long Eyelashes,

I'm a journalist and I remind myself that I can approach most stories I encounter, from all sorts of angles. Hell, you can even say the sum of my day is made up of individual facts. Except when it comes to you- then all I remember are traces of how you make me feel and that distinct smell of your skin that stays on me longer than any perfume ever could.

I don’t seem to remember the exact point at which I seceded all control to you and I'm hoping you're completely unaware of the actual power you wield. 

Like how you can flip my day around on its PMS-ing head each time you make me laugh in the morning. Or how when work gets me down you remind me that I can conquer entire kingdoms and the only reason I’m not currently doing that, is because leading an army on horseback is an insane idea in Mumbai traffic. And we all know, if you're not conquering a city on horseback, there’s no point doing it at all.

It's almost been two years since we got married Love, and there are days I feel like I’m living out a postcard. On some days time flies and other days stands still, shuffling around the same memories. Like the home stay in the village where you fell in love with the head cook's food almost as much as you love me. I say almost, because I'm certain that you never could love anyone else as much.
How could you? 
It's impossible to make someone feel as sexy, confident, loved and beautiful as you make me feel; and to do it for more than one person would just mean you're an alien, Love. 
And that I know you're not; trust me I've considered and thoroughly investigated this possibility while you were asleep.

There are days though, when I’m the foreign one in our bedroom. When the over-thinking has left me worn thin and light-years away from the man lying by my side. Though no matter which Interstellar time-warp I occupy, I always carry the faint smell of your skin on me.
That and worries- about the wet towels on the floor, our awfully slow internet speed or how sometimes you seem to prefer to stare at a fluorescent screen instead of me.

You could say I think a lot and mostly of eventualities. Like if the zombie apocalypse was near and I had to choose one last moment, would I:
a) Want you to look into my eyes through your ridiculously lush, gorgeous, long eyelashes or
b) Would I rather you kiss me on the forehead- like only you can, in one soft motion, making mush of my bones and essentially reversing the process of evolution.
I would never be able to choose. Also, I’m fairly certain that you and I would be murdered by those zombies.
Which is what some of our fights feel like after they're over- comic wars we've been through, the essence of which I never wholly understand.

I know we faced a loss 57 days after we married. I know that the loss has ravaged you in places. Sometimes when you’re lying asleep, I run my fingertips over those places and long to fix everything for you. Do you though, through your adult prism of loss, practicality and real-world problems wonder and get agitated when I bring up Italy and our long-delayed honeymoon?

Do you know that behind that ache to travel is a need to have you all to myself under a brilliant piece of sky, someplace beautiful, that I can claim as just ours? 
Do you know that I would pay money to even go on a run outside with you? 
And if I'm paying I want to ask how much cash do I need for all your secrets? All the things you still don't say. The things I need you to, to remind me that you love me even when I'm a hastily wrapped bundle of anger swathing many insecurities.
Look at me and tell me that I’m loved, more than paperwork and that app on your tablet.

Promise me Love, as we turn two that we will never be that cliched married couple. 
That even though I will nag you about vacations, you'll still remember how sexy I am when I want to be. 
That even when you’re angry, as you often are, you’ll stop to say something in your appalling Hindi and we’ll laugh about it together. Gharwali and Garbhwati describe two slightly different concepts, they cannot be used interchangeably.

That when we’re growing wrinkles together, we’ll remember to romance the socks off each other. Like how in 2009, November at Hard Rock CafĂ©, Worli where the music was too loud and we could still smoke inside, you sat down next to me, a complete stranger and simply asked, “Hey, do you do hash?”

Don’t let us grow old, darling, there’s way too much magic left to explore. And Italy.



(To You is a letter writing project I started because there are not enough letters and love going around. If you have something to say with love-- for your ex girlfriend, you current husband, pizza (promise not to make it cheesy), your landlord who let you skip rent or even Ryan Gosling-- I'll write that letter for you.
The final letter will be up on my blog and a copy will be handwritten/typed on a typewriter and posted to you or to an intended recipient. Kisses on the envelope only on my discretion.
Give me a shout at: )

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