I vividly remember your calligraphy on the margins of the letters.
Sometimes it would be sketch of the Howrah Bridge, or the Victoria Memorial.
Sometimes it would be just the Presidency dome, which we had seen from coffeehouse.
And always, it would be
“Calcutta misses you.”
With my letters,
Of old civilizations to you.
I would make you into prose.
Splatter you and soak you in like ink on the pages of an old diary from a different century.
Leave you undefined.
Yet define you like the flavours of whiskey.
From Candide to The Vagina Monologues, from Sans Toi to squabbling over homosexuality, I tasted them all in our letters. Spells of disappointment. Bouts of despair made room for themselves sporadically between spring’s red Gulmohor trees and December’s warm cuddling breaths. I thought I could create an album of Melancholy.
Thoughts remained thoughts, amorphous and anomalous. Thoughts, morphed into photos in black and white, into today are me.