Post Card and Chatim Ful
A P.O. Box, a Yahoo email ID and the address of my ancestral house. All three of them lead to my sanctuary. I have never shared these addresses with anyone believing that one day the one who is right will find me.
And I waited for YOU to find me.
I waited for your letters in the deep dark hollow of the post box and checked my mails faithfully twice a day. I was sure that even the doorbell would sound different if you rang it.
I always knew that my address was known to you and someday, when the time is right, you will find your way to me. But my longing kept me eagerly waiting for you every day, finding clues for your arrival.
I saw days turn into months and then into years, as I waited for your letter to reach me. Slowly, I started losing hope. I wanted those words from you, your acknowledgment to embrace me but it was not there.
I do not remember when I lost all hope and moved on, making my peace with half-hearted love, broken promises, and hiding my contusions with a concealer.
But the universe had a different plan for me.
It rained that day. It rained so much that I was certain that even the Gods were crying with me. I picked my black umbrella and went out to check my PO Box one last time. I walked through the clogged water with a heart sunk deep in emotions, and hope dried like my tears.
I reached the old, shabby PO box, completely drenched, as I realized that my umbrella needed more fixing than my heart. With my hopes hanging by a thread, I opened the half-broken lock of my PO Box. For a second I could not believe my eyes but there it was. An old-school post card sitting with my favourite Chatim Ful.
The post card I had to tear open as I had no other choice and my beloved Chatim ful I buried under the Pipal tree. I hoped one day it blooms like my never-ending love for you.
We wrote back to each other over and over, talking about our dreams, aspirations, happiness, sorrows, and love.
Those old-school post cards became my life, my happiness, and my peace. I waited for them as a Jacobin Cuckoo waits for rain. You avowed my pains and sorrows. I was joyous to be visible again after years. We did not even realise when we became part of each other’s life, or at least you became my breathing space.
You never let go of any chance to make me feel special, yet you never told me what I meant to you. And then came the day I asked you, and like always, once again you were nowhere to be found. All I got was a shadow of a person I thought I knew.
You told me every word that we both detested. I wanted to tell you this is your game, although I also played. It is not your fault, its mine. As I cherish all our moments and kept them in my heart, I realise you were keeping me, for lack of a better word: an option.
Then it hit me hard; you were not real, a fragment of my imagination, like my flower (Chatim Ful), you came for a season.
You turn my life upside down with your devilish presence, like my flower, which would disappear for a full year, after which I would begin to miss it like a woman who had lost her lover and was longing for his warmth.
I lost you, and again, I must make my peace with some harsh truth.
I will not check my PO Box, neither hope for a sunny day, nor wait for my flower, and certainly not wait for you anymore.
I am moving on until…