Unsent letters to men I have loved
Hello my dearest,
Have you been well? It looks like you have although sometimes I must admit I wish you were not. Then I remind myself that nobody really is, irrespective of the filtered selfies and narrative reels they post. I yearn for honesty and find myself reading between all the lines to see how much of everything is true.
I know you love your wife and your cats and for that, I am truly happy for you. I am learning to love myself and my cats, too, and there are days I wish I could share that with you. But for most part, I am happy and settled and finally at 31, learning to love myself with the same obsessive desperation I reserved for my romances, for my men.
It has been a long time since my last correspondence. You did not respond so it’s a stretch that you would ask about my life. I’m happy to report that it doesn’t matter as it once did. I am writing now, to ask if adulthood has given you the hope and freedom you thought it would? Mine, although rife with strain and fatigue, has been settling into that cozy spot reserved for child-like gratitude and silver-dusted dreams.
Silver-dusted dreams. Poornima, our senior, wrote a poem with that title when we were in school and since then I have obsessed and overused it. You were the first person to read when I began writing. The first person to “buy” my writing at a yard sale my dance group put up, and the first boy to sit up-front and centre for all my stage performances. Do you still read what I write? Do you read anymore at all?
Performances have taken a different meaning now. Older yet more open, distinguished yet more raw and real than ever. Do you still perform? On stages and studios, are your dreams of making music coming true? I hope the offices and meetings and pursuit of making other artists’ live their dreams has not caused you to put yours on hold.
I assume you still go to Church for your birthday every year. Yesterday I read the last mail I wrote to you before we parted ways. Another correspondence that did not need a response. But I did kneel at a pew, and say a small prayer for you — where ever you are. Not because I believe in a God, but because you do.
Has your sister found a job? Is your mother trying to get you married, or are you insistent on making sure your sister finds a good husband first? That’s the brother and son I knew you to be.
Have you seen anyone since me? I hope you have and I hope she’s the one.
My mother is trying to get me married too, and I’m not fighting her on it anymore. I would like a companion, but I am far more certain about what I am willing to compromise on. I call it conviction and clarity, amma calls is stupidity and stubbornness. But we are closer than we ever were, my family and I. You always told me it would come to that eventually, even though I rolled my eyes.
I live on a quiet street that blooms. I have lovely neighbours and a stray dog that sleeps at home on certain nights, with my four cats. There is a lot of grounding around me and on days when I struggle to breathe, the animals and my home does it for me.
Where do you live?
I am still the girl who gives more than she gets and I think I am slowly starting to be okay with that. Not because I am over-watering, as you know is my habit— but because I am finally giving while standing behind a firmly secured fence that only I have the key to.
I wish I had not taken my cricket bat back from you. I wish even more that I had a keepsake from your kit bag. Are you married? If you are, are you happy? Do you want kids? Do you still dream of playing for India, even though that dream now remains completely imaginative? Your lack of an online presence is one that I am happy about — but I do wish I knew if you took that solo trip you once longed for.
What music are you listening to now? What is your favorite food? What do you think of the latest slew of Indian movies, are you longing for something soft and sweet, too?
Sometimes I think I have a bone to pick with you — because you are no longer playing a part in my being okay. You haven’t, for many years. Sometimes I am angry that I have made myself stronger and happier and you did not help me with it except in leaving. It’s supposed to be a good thing, all this self-worth and independence and resilience. But there are days I long for your love, your comfort, your gentle chastising and your strong arms massaging my injured feet.
I have letters to write, stories to tell, art to create and love to give. That’s when I realise I don’t really have a bone to pick with you. I only have the sweet ache of knowing we are not a witness to each other’s lives anymore.
Nonetheless.
There will always be a place in my heart for you with fondness and memories whose value appreciates with time. And with every letter I write and don’t send, I will wish for you to be content, and in love. Always.
All my sincerity,
Vinithra
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Inspired by Sanjana Ganesh — whose writing knows my heart. A friendship where we know each other even without regular correspondence. A bond forged from memories, confessions, and writings of the heart.
Thank you, Sanju, ily. ❤
