I found a piece of paper in my parent’s almirah,
mom and dad are known for their letter and greeting card collection,
this one was unusual cuz, it was an envelope dated, 02 October, 1994;
and it also had “to address’ in it.
I opened the unsent letter with huge excitement,
I was astonished by the very first line,
truly and faithfully,
this would be the last letter I would write for you”.
The letter carried the true essence
of pure and innocent love,
that was hidden in between the cassette tapes, chapbooks, discman and postcards.
My dad wasn’t a poet, but love made him one,
he expressed his emotions in every line with cute rhymings that made the letter sound like a nursery song, who knows,
maybe it was their love language.
I envy his skills of how he beautifully described her henna dyed hair that gleam with reflected light, dazzling jhumkas, daisies that adorn her braid, red bindis and sindoor on her forehead, and silver anklets,
the way she giggles, laughs, talks, yells in anger, gulps the food in hurry and every single action of hers.
He also wrote about how they met, how they confessed love in a melancholic manner.
Then came the last stanza of the letter that broke my tender heart,
my taste buds produce honey everytime I prounounce your name,
I can’t imagine your name on someone’s lips,
our thread of fate was paper thin that it couldn’t survive the pressure of the societal norms,
love is care, intimacy, passion, attraction
but ours was only sacrifice,
we are two practical people,
who knows that this separation is forever,
press ctrl+ all+delete our together times,
we weren’t born for each other,
let’s live with the one’s who were meant to be ours,
take care. “
Tears rolled down as I completed reading the letter,
the handwriting turned clumsy, who knows, maybe my dad was sobbing badly.
I left the letter in the place where I discovered it,
I went to the balcony,
my mom and dad were having their cup of coffee together,
with laughs and hugs.
To some life is perfect,
some make it perfect,
my dad found the one who was meant to be his, only his
I don’t think he remembers her,
except when he calls me by name.
This is in response to a prompt: “My father’s last poem to his college love”
Thank you so much for reading! ❤️