The Letter Not Addressed To Me

I had been to the bookstalls at Gandhi Maidan in Patna for years. It is the best place in the city to get a book irrespective of its genre. You can also get a first copy or second. Or third. They buy used books and sell them at cheaper rates, earning a living in these transactions. It was like a mini college street of Kolkata with the tobacco stench replaced by smoke from vehicles. My friend had suggested Hosseini to me to get a glimpse of Afghanistan and acquire an international taste. I asked for the book by the author's name, and the seller pushed the book that seemed to have been read more number of times than the number of pages it had. 

"250. No bargain", the seller had been stern about it. I was walking away when he ran after me with the novel and accepted a 200 rupee note with a smile. 

The novel had dog-eared pages, and the pages had been yellow. I walked back home and kept the book on the table. A piece of paper fell out of it. I picked it up. It was a letter. I knew it was ill-mannered to read someone else's message, but I had bought the book and maybe now, owned the letter as well. I did not think so much then as I did not know I would be reading it over and over again. The letter had been folded along the same crease and placed along with the same page so often that it seemed to have carved a niche for itself in the book.

334, Nehru Nagar

Patna - 800013

16th December 2013

Dear Nishaani

I hope you are doing well. Actually, I don't, but that is not how one should talk to a woman. I think I have been investing a lot of my time in getting your attention and now that I know that you have a terrible taste in boys, I regret doing so much to be in your good books. I know I am there, but it is pretty useless because you are not so passionate about reading. Did you know our school library has a poster that says knowing how to read and not reading is as good as being unable to read? I am pretty sure you didn't read that either.

I am writing this to you because I believe I deserve a full refund or at least some compensation. I have known you for ten years now. I have been obsessed with you even before knowing there is a word to describe what I feel for you. Sadly, the term is still not clearly defined. Having invested emotionally in you for so many years and realising now that this path leads nowhere, I demand a few things I believe you can easily comply with.

I would like to have the following things returned, preferably in the condition I had lent to you. I know I had no intention of asking you to return it, but I can no longer see why you should have them. If you are unable to find them, then I would like to have some help finding something that closely resembles it so that it can be replaced. I believe it isn't too much to ask.

First things first, I would like to have my choices back, the original ones. I know you love purple and I had tried to adopt it as my favourite colour with sincerity. Green had been my favourite since my father brought me my first set of wax crayons, but when I saw you on your birthday in a purple gown and matching shoes, I knew my favourite colour had changed. If you could return my refreshing green and have your putrid purple back, I would be grateful to you.

I knew you had a thing for origami. You loved to watch M.A.D. on Pogo and tried out the easy-to-make stuff. I had seen enough Bollywood till then to know that you should support people when they are doing something they are passionate about. That year, I had to buy three drawing books. Did you know my father had been so irritated by the frequent requests for drawing books that he was about to throw the entire crayon set? I don't think he has a favourite colour. Maybe Maa doesn't have a favourite colour, though they seem to be in love. I know it is ridiculous, but I would love to have my drawing book sheets back, unfolded or folded into a swan or a frog.

When I saw you and thought of us as a couple, I always saw me working hard to see you happy and smiling every day. It seems creepy when I think of it, but I did not see you making any effort back then. I was pleased and content with your existence, and that was all I needed. So when I saw you slacking off while I tried my best to ace in every subject, I did not mind or bother to say anything. I had always known that women depended on men for their survival and had no idea how toxic the thought was. The idea of you being dependent on me gave me a sadistic pleasure that someday, I would own you. It is not me but the way I knew the world worked back then. So if you could slap me in private or think of something that might teach me a lesson without humiliation, tell me so that I can get it off my chest.

You had some weird habits as well, and I am familiar with them. You chew the caps of your pens out of anxiety, and it makes me cringe. You dog-ear the pages of your book because you are too lazy to get a bookmark and too disoriented to remember what page you were on. You highlight lines in the books you are reading. To me, you had been the perfect girl. Sadly, you were not. The girl I adore resembles you in appearance, but she keeps her pens properly and uses a bookmark. If you can promise me that you will let me be with someone, I thought as perfect, even as a pretence for a day, it would mean the world to me.

You write with your left hand, and I have always been amazed by that. It is weird because you are good at calligraphy, and I can not even hold a pen properly with my left hand. It is not a flaw as I thought about this in my dreams where we are writing letters to each other, sitting beside each other, holding hands. I have dreamt about it several times. Then our palms get sweaty, and we switch to interlocking our fingers. I could not read what we wrote. Maa says we dream with our left side and read with the right or vice versa. I do not think it mattered as long as you were there by my side. I have no requests there, just wanted you to know how badly I was into you.

You wear full sleeve shirts on some days when the bruises on your arm are of your favourite colour. I do not know why, but I think your father is too violent. I notice he is never there in your social media photographs and you are not your bubbly self when you come to school on PTA meetings with him. Nobody can hit you even if you make some errors. A few years ago, I believed you could not make one. I know because I have seen Maa wear full sleeve clothes on random days, but they all had something in common. 

Sorry about scratching away that part. I realised I was going out of my way.

Lastly, when I think of you, I see you happy. I know a forever smile will wipe away its charm and a forever laugh will be lunatic, but I believe you can be happy forever. I have always imagined a future where you are so glad. Now that I come to think of it, all I saw in all my dreams was you in a blissful state. Sure I was working, and you were taking care of the household (slap me again for the cringe), but I did not see my face ever. All I saw was you. Maybe you can help me fulfil my dream. No matter what happens, some things can never change. You will always remain my first non-celebrity crush (do not try to compete with Emma Watson). I see a ray of hope that my dream can still be fulfilled as it was never about us primarily. It was about you. It has always been about you. 

I don't mind you dating a whole bunch of idiots till you find the right guy with whom you click. I don't care if you paint your house a grim shade of purple. I don't mind if there is a paper zoo in your home and you proudly show it to the world, hiding your paper cuts. I don't judge you even today but more importantly, whatever you choose to be, a working woman or a housewife or something peculiar. I don't mind anything as long as you are happy and blossoming beautifully as you used to be. I know I can not do anything to lighten your burden, but maybe I can be your strength to carry it. I feel honoured to have your nishaan, your mark on my life, and I will always cherish it.

Yours 

Raghav

 

P.S. I know you will never read Khaled Hosseini and this is the only way I can say this to you without you knowing it. Dooset daram Nishaani jaan.

The writer left me with a set of questions with no one to answer them. Did Nishaani ever get this letter? Did she read it? Why is it in this book? Did she sell away the book without even reading it? Or did she read it, and it was too late and the memory too strong to be kept with her? The book appeared to have been read multiple times but was it Nishaani ever? Where are they? More importantly, who are they? Amidst all this, my eyes caught a line highlighted in purple. 

For you, a thousand times over.

I smiled and started reading the book.