A portal to yesterday & tomorrow
Writing to you from grey, rainy, cold Mumbai about a few promises I made to myself two-odd years ago.
One day, I will write letters to my older self. I will tell her all about today and yesterday, and that day from three Tuesdays ago when the greys took over the skies - banishing the sun from reaching my bougainvillaeas.
Memory sure is notoriously treacherous - she makes promises of a lifetime but bids adieu at the drop of a hat.
When I write, I will make notes about the loud mornings and the dead silence of the nights. In my poems, I will dedicate pages upon pages to the punctures of our hearts and the garages we built together to mend them.
My letters will bring to her misplaced memories of everyday nothingness - of miscellaneous afternoons spent lounging with the kitty, of that book that had us at the edge of our seats for hours at a stretch. ‘Do you remember how thrilling that read was?’ I’ll ask, adding, ‘Wherever you are, I hope you’re reading with the same tenacity. I hope words sweep you off with the same zest as they did when you first figured out the trick to string them together.’
I will tell her of Creativity's 3 AM visits that stole the slumber from our tired bones.
And then abandoned us at dawn.
I plan to write at length about the seeds we sowed and the pots we painted together.
My words will be waiting for her at the back of a cupboard until she stumbles upon them with glee - greeting her with love, warmth, a reminder of all the times that tides turned against us, and how we pushed through.
One day I will write letters to my older self. I will tell her about you and me, and everything in between.
Stunning and beautiful. Tell me all.
You're such a beautiful writer! The messages you're passing between your selves are so important. I've often thought of writing letters to my grandchildren only to be read after I'm gone, sharing important pieces of my relationship with them when they were little children (as they are now).