Sunday, 14 December 2014

A Letter To You - 1

Letters are always special. And trust me, nothing more than a handwritten letter can be a wonderful gift. It feels beautiful to know that someone out there penned down their heart in a piece of paper, smeared them with shades of the ink and addressed it to you.
These letters are those I scribbled in my diary. To not to be send. Do not ask me why I'm sharing them here. Cause, all I'm doing is making this my *personal* blog.
#LettersToYou


A letter to you whom I saw today

We met today. For a sparsely few moments our paths met, at the crossroad. You know what I saw of you first, the intense red painted lips. And when I think of you now that is what comes to my mind. Intense red.
A face plunged in rouge. The cheeks forced to blush. The dark kohl lined eyes. All that you made up but came trickling down your forehead to cheeks to chin as droplets of sweats, in shades of dyes you painted yourself.
The golden yellow salwar and crimson kameez. A vivid dupatta. You seemed a rainbow. You spelt colours.
The shingled hair and your malnourished built, but told me nothing of your sex. And I do not know whether to call you my sister or brother.
Yet I laughed. At my guy friend who went jumpy as you approached him. As you pulled his sleeves and caught his wrist. As you tried to "seduce" him.
Tried. You were not more than twenty years old. And let me tell you, weren't born to seduce. You failed. I do not know the tale of your life. But the streets you roamed and lived in now, the masks you wear now, have failed to teach you to seduce. After all you seem to be no more than a piece of flesh and a few colours. A butt of ridicule.
The streets you call home failed you. We, your fellow beings failed you. The world failed you. But you rose above the heights of failure.
And yet you find means to survive. You gather guts, put on masks and struggle to survive. Begging to prostitution to seduction. Begging for someone to share your body. For a few pennies that would keep you alive. Run your family, maybe.
The pain you bury within reflects in those shades you blush in.
You struggle to survive, sell your body. Beg keeping aside your dignity. And I laughed at you. I feel ashamed and am sorry. Sorry. For being able to not send this to you. For being able to do nothing but write this, right now.
I respect you. And wish, hope, and believe you'll find a shoulder once to lean on. A heart that'll understand. And a world that wouldn't shun you out of its horizon.

Yours


1 comment:

  1. Isn't it strange that we laugh at them, despite knowing that their being what they are isn't their fault ? Good for having written this down, Paru. I appreciate you for sharing this here too.

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