“ Dear ……”, he wrote, as he started his fifth attempt at writing to her. He had tried but had been unable to go beyond ‘My dear’, “Dearest’ and ’Sweetheart’. The first of these sounded terribly formal. And the other two seemed too …what’s the word…’forward’. As if they had stepped beyond an imaginary line, which he thought she might have drawn in her mind, about how far he could go… (no one had ever said his was an uncomplicated mind!). Maybe it was just the difficulty of finding the right words; maybe it was just the loss of habit – he hadn’t written to her for over a month.

“How have you been? I haven’t heard from you for almost three months now, and I wonder what’s been happening in your part of the world”, he continued, before he stopped again. Didn’t it sound banal? (“How have you been?”). Or inquisitive; even suspicious and accusing (“…haven’t heard from you for almost three months now. I wonder…”). He knew that there were many things that kept her busy: the theatre group, with which she was so involved, her freelance photo-journalism assignments, and of course the work on her thesis. And yet, he did feel the pang of (growing?) distance, when he did not hear from her for long periods. And, surely there was nothing wrong with what he’d written, he told himself. After all, everyone began letters with vague generalities.

“ Last time you wrote, you were working on a new interpretation of Oedipus Rex with your Alfaaz group. I recall the twist was based on the notion that Oedipus actually did suspect who Jocasta was. And that his actions were not born out of the Freudian concept of conquest over his father, but rather, the desire for revenge against his mother – or rather against all mothers. For emasculating their sons using their twin weapons: the tyranny of their weakness as the unquestionable claim on their strength, and the invoking of a sense of shame in both sons and fathers for not having the unsullied purity of their virtuousness. I must say it sounded like a very deliberate attempt to be provocative, but how is it turning out? Is the script-work over? Are you guys close to starting rehearsals?” he went on. He re-read what he’d written, and asked himself why he had written all of it. He wasn’t particularly interested in how the new Alfaaz play was turning out. (Except for the fact that he hoped XXXX wasn’t playing the male lead opposite her, in this play too. XXXX had seemed to be taking his role a bit too seriously the last time, at least where the romantic parts with her were concerned). What he was really interested in was telling her how he felt.

“There really is nothing special to tell you”, he continued, “I haven’t been doing anything very special. Things at the office are going on pretty much as usual, except that Swamy (do you remember, you met him at last year’s New Year party?) has taken up a job in Dubai. And I have moved into his earlier cabin at the end of the corridor”, he wrote. Why don’t I get to the point, he almost shouted at himself. Why don’t I just get on and tell her that I miss her, her ever-so-serious air, her gurgling, laughter with that cute nasal twang. But that wouldn’t be right, he feared. She might think he was just being terribly mushy and sentimental. And silly. Like some fool in a film.

“By the way, I saw a great film the other day: The Silence of the Lambs. I’m sure you’ve seen it by now. Hopkins was fabulous as Dr. Lecter Hannibal, but then the role was just so sympathetic towards his twisted character. And the director’s mastery over the sub-texts of the story-line allowed him to maintain the tautness of the narrative throughout. If you haven’t seen it yet, you must. And do tell me what you thought of it.” Any excuse to ask her to write, he thought. And hoped that the avant-garde, intellectual touch he’d sought to bring in (‘…director’s mastery over the sub-texts of the story-line, allowed him to maintain the tautness of the narrative…’), wouldn’t seem too put-on.

He was reminded of the old joke about ‘How are you?’ being a greeting, not a question. But the real joke, he felt, was that people had missed the whole point. It was neither a greeting nor a question. It was a plea, reaching out for a touch of intimacy, across gulfs of distance. But he couldn’t have written stuff like ‘a plea, reaching out for a touch of intimacy’ in a letter. He could only hope that she’d be able to read between the lines. Also, he’d better finish now, and go down to the post office. He might just be able to catch the last clearance for the day. The YYYY festival was coming up next week and posting the letter on Monday might mean a delay of more than a week in her getting it. Also it was more than likely that she’d be packing her camera to go out of town, to cover the festival. He just added a few last words, before putting the letter in the envelope. And hoped, that in spite of being cliches and commonplace, at least the last few words of his letter would convey his real feelings.

“Take care, love”

*****

{NOTE TO READER: Now that you’ve read the story, go back and read only the ‘letter’ he wrote - it is there, starting at every paragraph of the story, in double quotation marks. To see how much is left out in every letter, in any letter. To realise that often, generalities may hide specifics for which there are no words. To try to read between the lines the next time you receive a letter. }

Copyright 2007 Anand Halve
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