Today, I suppose I am writing to you after about five long years; five years that bent and twirled my life to an extent that you wouldn’t have imagined. I had been talking to you since the time I was ten and I shared my utmost desires, dreams, ideas, aspirations, emotions, hopes, melancholy, conviction and relationships with you. You listened to every word tolerantly, with just the right amount of understanding. I would write to you about the birthday parties I attended, the books I read, friends at school, friends in the neighbourhood, Mom, Dad, my brother, my cousins and my family. You were my refuge; a safe haven where I could be myself for each instant the nib of my pen touched your sheets of paper. I would feel culpable when I couldn’t write to you for days at a stretch and then I would make an apology for being negligent. I would aimlessly write poetry, verses and lyrics to which none but you had an access. Every time I felt even the slightest dash of misery, the first thing I would do was to let you know and you made it endurable, generally. You held me, you held the person I was, the person I had always been.
I remember how I would fasten pictures inside you at times to preserve certain moments and ideas. You’re the one who saw me closely as I turned from a little girl to a teenager to an almost-adult lady. You’re the one who knows it all about those nine years of life that spanned from the first time I wrote to you up until the last. You’re the one who clasped those small mysteries and veiled them as you veiled me. You’re the one who preserved my laughter, some inane jokes, droll pranks and affable smiles. You’re the only one who knew me inside out.
Then, one day, Mom read you. You spilled out a lot of positives and negatives; mostly negatives that is. I still held on to you, hid you under the covers like you had cloaked me for so many years. I would write to you when everyone slept, in the inadequate radiance of the night lamp, with the tube lights switched off. I would write to you honestly, frightfully, dependently. I would bury you in the least plausible corners trusting with safeguarding who I was. I kept writing without recognizing that Mom kept reading. I would write about animosity, I would write about pain, I would write about desolation, I would write about love and almost every time I wrote, I would write about her. One day, our relationship ended because she invaded my privacy. I blamed you. I blamed this practice of writing because in the end it left me alone. You left me alone.
In the past few years, I have tried to mend our severed ties time and again but I usually get afraid of the depressing ways in which this could expose my innermost sentiments. I can’t be truthful to you any more and therefore I think I can’t write to you eternally. Yet, I’d like to let you know that I still treasure our friendship and those nine years that we were together. Thanks for comforting me with the belief that those years will always exist with every word I wrote then and every word I read now; in you, with you.