Dear Aman [3]

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Dear Aman, 

I lit up the lamp on my bedside and tried to read a few lines of the letters written by you. Funny, how my life has now been confined to these four walls, where the only sound I can hear is either the page flap or the sound of my own heartbeat. Heartbeats I usually ignore; they don't seem necessary anymore. Everyone in their lives has felt that their heart beats for no one, or no one is there for whom these beats are important. Once, these beats were so important to us, falling for your first crush, listening to some cool band, pranking your best friend, winning a school race, running in a marathon. Seeing myself, it's so hard to believe I once ran a marathon for fun; again, the beats don't matter anymore. 

Each day I feel like the walls are talking to me, they weep through their peeling. I once coloured these walls pink for the sake of my love for flowers and balloons, and pasted the paintings I drew, paintings of flowers and seasons. Now my colours are all dry, and my pencils are all broken and unsharpened. 

This new moon night, I picked up the letter written long ago, dated 1978, decades before I was born. There were so many emotions expressed in those. I started to wonder if this kind of affection would ever find me, and if it would, how am I supposed to take this much love?  

Aman, you must be annoyed about how I always make these letters about me. You know they think we are lovers. Are we? I don't know. Do I need to know? Would I like to know in the future? Maybe. But for now, this question is also unnecessary, like my heartbeats. 

With Love

Yours ever

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Nidhi katoch
A silent observer in search of her TRUE HOME. If you like my writings, do comment and share... Views are extremely personal and are original writings of mine.

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