A Love Letter or A Romantic's Collage

Dear CynicalMe,

I don't know where I met her first. I am not even sure if I met her all at once. There were glimpses here and there, every now and then. A fleeting moment where I would briefly catch her before she disappeared . I remember, once between the yellow pages of a Sharat Chandra's novel I met a part of her. She was wearing a Bengali drape, two large pleats in the front, her pallu weighed down by a bunch of keys. The lady of the house since she was fourteen, when her mother died leaving behind a broken-hearted, noble father. She had become the mother of her father. She was "the quiet part", with an intense look on her pretty, little face radiated occasionally by a half-smile - go as quickly as it had come.

And then that night when I saw her in Maaya. Soulful and lively. Reckless and independent. She was adventurous, courting danger, living every moment. She was "the creative part". Late at night I had watched her on Doordarshan, half-afraid my father would wake up and catch me red-handed having my fling and snatch me away. The bewitching and the lovely Maaya died on the T.V set that day but lingered on, accumulating dust in one corner of a fourteen-year-old heart till ten years later a twenty-three-year-old remembered her.

I met her off-and-on in Kolkata. Irresistible, following me everywhere, elusive and persistent. I saw her sometimes on the rainy days, from the fifth floor of a building. As the rains lashed at the clothes left to dry, on a wire hung between two of the numerous huts scattered below like summer rashes, she would appear to hastily remove as many as possible as soon as possible. She looked mesmerizing as she ran around the rain in a faded and old salwar kameez frayed at the edges. I would spot her sometimes as she stepped out from a car to have fuchkes by the road. Excited and with careless abandon, some of the spicy water dripping down her chin. I would also see her in the metros, quietly reading a book, once in a while stealing a glance at the others, quickly looking back as she met another pair of eyes regarding her.

I met her always when you were sleeping. Did you always go to sleep when she came? Maybe she came when she knew you were sleeping. And then you would wake up, I would retreat, shamefaced and feeling like a fool. I would admire your practical eyes, your self-assured, cold logic. You would look at me with derision, your eyebrows raised enquiringly and I would squirme under your gaze - embarassed and red-faced, despairing hopelessly at my weak-heartedness.

I met her again recently. This time when you were awake. You say I have "relapsed hopelessly". You look at me with despise and ask me not be such a fool. You ask "what if she is not the one?" "What if she has met her own?" I don't know. As usual I have no answers to your questions. I will never have for how can I ever know? I am confused. Can you allow me to take a leap of faith?

Yours faithfully,

RomanticMe