Livinghigh: By the by
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Livinghigh was here at 10:43 AM /



By the by

There is this woman who sits on the road where my house is, every evening. She sits decked like a bride. She wears a cheap red sari, and a glittering veil, all criss-crossed gold paper and red chiffon. She sits on the ground and reads a newspaper, nonchalantly enough. She has a tray in front of her, and though I've tried my best to peek at what she has there, I'm not exactly sure. It could be money, I suppose, because I've seen her arms outstretched to passers-by sometimes.

Yes, I've been curious about her. I've weaved stories about her in my head. I've wondered whether she's a bride kicked out of her home for a variety of reasons - husband had a mistress? In-laws not satisfied at dowry? Mad bride? Mad girl who wants to be a bride? Widow who has no idea what to do now? Or simply, a mirage?

But she's not one. Not a mirage. She sits there, usually in the evenings, sometime even in the afternoon sun, calmly at her ususal spot, away from the shade of any nearby tree - just... sitting, and waiting for I-don't-know-what.

***

There is something on at Gabbles, called Letters. I've decided to produce the first letter here:

Writing letters is never easy. I can't stop thinking that perhaps you won't get this one, or perhaps you'll forget where you kept it, and you'll never hear the words I had to say. The words that I've thought of, softly for you, chosen for you. These are the words that I would whisper to you at night, if I could, and you would fall asleep to my voice. I would be tender, I would promise. I would push your strands of hair behind your ear, and softly whisper, touch by touch, and my tongue would lull you to sleep.

I love you. Is there anything ever as insipid as that?

I adore you. Is there anything ever as desperate as that?

But that is not here for me, any more, and so I write. I put pen to paper, thought to word, intent to action, and I hope that you read me. I hope that you hear me, and I hope that you understand me. There is, after all, only one thing that I have to say.

I love you.


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