Your sister was telling me about your eating habits when I asked her what is in your plate today. It is an irony that you love bittergourd because your heart is like sugar syrup. And I want to be witness to drown in it. Just in the case, if houseflies crowd me all over, your a tinge of sigh would be enough to free my lungs.

You told me initially, how much you love your sister. I am in love with her too. I am in love with her more because she has same smile as yours. It's she who gave me half of you. And now she is in these letters; she has this aura of your brotherhood that she deserves all your love before me.

And now sometimes it makes me gloom to think about your mother. She gave you her whole life and now she makes a home with you. She is a woman of those ages when one witnessed of "why a woman needs to go out?" She is in pain every single moment. She tells me how much she loves you. Maybe that's why I love her too. I won't say you are not doing enough; I'm just saying you might never have seen how she casually lifts her aching arms to fill them with your whole of you. She is a woman before me who knows how to embrace your grief in her crumpled pallus tucked in her belly.

-

Exactly one month back we met and exchanged our hands. I gave you mine, you gave me yours. You and I exchanged smiles. And how do you smile? Did someone tell you ever? You smile like that naked early morning after a heavy rainfall, having a one nighstand affair with itself. You smile like those sunsets of beaches; that you adore. You told me hundred times that you wanted to be there, like eternity for stretching your hustles and bustles of life. All I'm saying is that, you are that sunset for me.

You asked me the other day to not write for you. Not even about you? besides, I should write about me more. I swallowed your words and spitted the agony out of it. I then, held my words like I held your hand one month back and slipped a ring into your fingers. You said not for you. I too say now not for you; not for you. Maybe it's all for our dream. Maybe it's all for one month after. One month after, we would have been slipping more trust into our fingers. It's not true that I don't love myself. I love myself like I love you, it's the only truth I can oath. See, ring is magical it is turning itself into oath, trust and now us.

-

You sent me an umbrella. It is raining in our cities. I asked you where is yours? And you replied you have none, so you would like to drench. And I were pressing my both hands to listen that we would share one umbrella. You didn't say. But I tried yet to listen. To listen through flying cicadas from my father's shoulders to my off shoulder top. You postponed. You said it is not the right time. It is not, indeed. But it's raining in your balcony and umbrella that you sent me is neither above my head nor in your hands. It is somewhere in the box your grandmother didn't open yet. It might be a magical box. And you know that why you loved your grandfather so much? Maybe because he always shared his drenched dreams with you and you helped him drying them. This is why you postponed. You don't know how to say it, that your umbrella is meant for our two heads and one hand.

-

You wipe the sweat of your temples with your rolled sleeves. I always imagine you in your green plaid shirt because I've seen you in green only, twice. You work hard. Paying the bills and writing expenses in your diary; chipped off walls and your dried clothes, everything is slurry in your home. You haven't began playing badminton as you have promised. You say you are working hard for your dreams.

It has been 2 months we have been together. And one month is passed since we had our longest conversation. The last one that we texted made you bitter and you were in hypersomnia in days too, you told me. Maybe it's far better to live alone like this because of choosing the texture of curtain whole day rather than these distances. You sweat all day and kiss your bed at night.
It is hard to believe how love falls for every autumn and spring; it melts for summer and freezes for winters and we just believe that it is same like season of a particular place. Love is weather. Now, Your home is not ready. And so not this september too for me. We hardly talk because we strongly believe in our bubbled voids. You want everything to end to begin again; I'm waiting in beginning to end your wait.

-

You tell me, you are tired and you sleep and work. Meet people, speak either your mind or theirs. You might turn out the wallet from your pocket, count the notes you have—"money is all what we live and it's not all for what we live", You say. you are this much tired that you can't feel what I say. Okay, you didn't say this exactly but you know I can count on this. When you say you are hell busy for money it simply means you can't feel me. I am somewhere I know like while you unlock your phone screen and dial my father's phone number.
The best thing happening in your life, is me. Maybe. I might cry on this. I am fed up now of this 'might', 'perhaps', 'wish'— soon my eyes will see through yours and maybe then this day will remained as words. Infact, these letters are just gists of time of "once upon a time we met" to "when we will meet". It's okay, I know. But is it okay everything there too? You know how suddenly life has no meaning and this knot that we will share and this memory we are making, being apart shaping the story into a love story. And we always heard them, did you ever try to make one. I did. You did. Wasn't it the waste? Will it be waste too?

-

I hardly dream about you. And when I dream, either I see you going far away from me or you to be a man I don't know. You surprise me in them but I guess this is the way you want to teach me. You said the other day even if you said you don't believe in love, but this doesn't mean to be true. Some things that said to be true have partial lies. I was learned this then. You furthur said you don't expect anything from anyone. Again you teach. This might be less true or more false. And how much your words are true for me? More than that word seems to say. It's teacher's day. When we first met I told you I'm goin to be a teacher. And then you told me you are a person of lack of academic knowledge. And I heard you peacefully. Resting my hands on my cheeks. I laughed and recognised the teacher in you. That quote, "life is the biggest teacher", befitted on your spoke eyes. Now, you teach me that love and fear can't live together. That I have to love you to not to fear of losing you.

-

It is janmashtami. You are an athiest so am I. You outspoken this the very first time about disbelief in god and belief in life. You believe in believing on yourself. Lord krishna says the same. "Do your work without considering your results". People say we have same habits. We both don't believe in god. If only there would be god then same will not have been true.

You said today about speaking less when you will be here as I and my phone. This much close. There would be no need of words. I just ignored you, I don't know why I cut you in mid of our talks. I oftenly do this. This is not a right habit. It might be fear of love; leaving before knocking. Our habits are same, of saying not what our heart says; that it silences when we see to each other. I say it's luck that you're the same I had ever imagined. But not all our habits are same. Are they? Stop smiling now.

-

-

तुझसे मांगा तुझे ही है
मुझे मैं तो कब से ही मिला है

मुझे तू उतना ही चाहिए
जितना तू तुझे मिला है।

-

There are sounds
Cluttering, chirping
How my bangles dance
Now? When it's all silk
Over my body and silkworm
At the centre of my head
is the self love without you—

Everything, without you
Seems with you;
Perhaps it's all for poems
Poems that are embellished in
Rows of pink and white balloon;

I steal glimpses of yours
And my eyes droop over your
Shoulders; my father's height
is shortening over the years
I don't know if I can be a pillow
For your head or all you need
Your eyes to sleep.

-