Elegy written on a rainy vacation day

Some people can’t be forgotten. They can’t be remembered either. They just exist in your life. Maybe as tucked away memories of hurt... Or whispers of something you imagined…

This is about him. Someone I met years ago, who walked in uninvited into my life. True that I’d hoped fervently that he would. True that I’d thrown open doors for him to walk in. But uninvited still. I can’t bring myself to accept that I’d invited trouble.

I met him at a wedding years ago, to which he’d come on invitation.

Blue crumpled silk skirt which held my complete attention, strands of hair that were incessantly being pushed back and wouldn’t stay on, anklets in gold that I wasn’t to lose- you see, it was just too much of attention on myself coming from me. But this is to tell you how young I then was.

Young and almost innocent.

The next time he came in, he came as a letter. To an address I’d written on the back of the invitation or his palm- I don’t exactly remember. But I knew it was something quick and away from the eyes of my grandmother.

His letter, which I hid from mother. No, not under pillows. But among the numerous books on the bookshelf. You see, almost innocent.

His soft, pale envelopes and black inked writings came to signal something achingly secretive. Something I when tried to share, became distorted.

He wasn’t a lover. But I loved him.

He wasn’t a boyfriend. I had another.

He wasn’t a cousin. I had many.

He wasn’t a friend. I didn’t need one then.

His letters, all then carefully stored in a brown jute bag. Letters that bore fingerprints from constant reading. Letters that were opened proudly in front of girlfriends and read to memorize. Words that were stored in your mind. “I will look you after…”

I opened my heart to him in words. Girlish secrets of periods and pains and the furtive joy in sharing this with a boy. Childish guilt that was salvaged and presented. Almost innocent.

He was the one I cried to when my first love was discovered lost.

And then he walked away.

Reason as it existed, didn’t make much sense. Rather, there wasn't much of it to go around.

I wrote to him. Feverish scribbles on envelopes with his address. I kept writing to a reply that never came.

It hurt that I didn’t know the exact moment when he ceased to exist in my life. I didn’t even catch his shadow.

It was the day before having to go home after 4 years of early morning alarms, shared bathrooms and study.

College had wound up and serious decisions had to be made about memorabilia collected from the years. Gifts that were re-gifted. Pressed flowers from the numerous occasions that always existed in college life. Love letters from non-lovers. Things that mom would easily classify as- junk.

The brown jute bag that had remained idle for many months now. It would have made more sense to either keep it or throw it all away. But on the wet terrace of our house, in the fast fading light of the day, I sat down to tear all his letters.

One by one. My fingers hurt. The soft envelopes weren’t as soft as they seemed. They were more than I expected in number. But hot wet tears helped. They fell fast and furious on the black ink and turned them all spidery. A shivering spider.

My best friend sat watching me; her pile had gotten over quite sometime ago. I kept tearing and tearing. I finished them all.

He was now officially a memory. RIP.