You know I’m pissed with you. And with good reason. You fucked up pretty bad and try as I might I can’t get past your asinine behaviour.
But we go back a long way, you and I.
From the time at age 3 I became madly obsessed with loving you because that meant I got to wear red kumkum and bangles and feel important moving the agarbathi on one of your many faces to the recent past where I actually fasted and gave up chicken and beer because I thought so naïvely that you will see the error of your ways and grant me what I most wanted.
Well you did and you didn’t.
And this high-handedness, smug superiority, and willful ambiguity of yours is what gets me so mad.
Do you know what? This May I will be 30 – that’s officially like half my life over right there. And I just realised the magnitude of that. I mean I sort of vaguely knew that age is catching on and goodness-so-wise-I-am-getting-to-be and all that. But bang in the middle of the continuum that my life is thanks to insomnia, it struck me that ‘Guess what, I’m old now and so I can do pretty nearly anything I want to do.’
So I thought I’ll write to you (puerile may be, but you started it) where the entire world can read about what an arse you really are. And no, don’t get your hopes up. I’m not kissing your hallowed ring and making it up to you. Yet.
I’ll be brief.
If this were a Bollywood production I’d be dressed in a white sari ringing the bells of your house till kingdom come and it would be all stormy and wild like my hair. And I’d have great make-up on and look strong and vulnerable at the same time. And you’d look like a bloody fool just standing there and watching, till of course you’d go ahead and show me a miracle. And be a hero and get venerated all over again.
So you fucked up the first take. Never mind, this is your second take. Don’t fuck this. You know what I’m talking about. You cannot show me something that reinstated my faith in love and purity of relationships only to fuck it up later on. Don’t you dare break my family. I trust you to behave. And not make me feel like a depraved lunatic, a depressed whore. So give my lovers a bloody buggering break. And the obligatory miracle. And that’s all. Thank you.
P. S. It would help if you’d send some sleep my way too. Nonsense!
P. P. S. I won’t sign off because a suitable signature is yet to be discovered and I can’t do that when I haven’t slept in 30 days thanks to you.
P. P. P. S Good going on helping me make up my mind on the job thing. Now it better be fun and make me happy even if it doesn’t really make me very rich. You couldn’t let me have it all even there, could you? Also notice how I give credit where it is due?
Sorry about getting all epistolary on you. But you know how it is, sometimes, these things ought to be done. Like that.
Skip to this song if you will. Bloody brilliant. And as trippy as I am feeling right now.