9th April,
Tuesday.
Dearly beloved,
It has been raining cats and dogs since last few days, it’s dark and gloomy unlike anything I have ever been a witness of. I am going through my wallet to skim the date and time, that bills usually capture; I have a strange habit of collecting them. I don’t know now why of all the habits I could choose, I chose collecting bills. Though it is but a coincidence that I, with significant history of forgetting, am submissively attracted to dates stamped on them and it is something of a milestone when I’m mysteriousy reminded of certain figments of the given time.
There are bills ranging from cafeteria’s and diners, parks to takeout meals, boarding passes; there are tiny notes you forgot in the book you gave me as present, the room booked and several other types. I felt a sudden rush of our memories from Delhi flooding my mind. I was with you every where in flash; we were on the only ride we shared and went high enough to throw your head in spirals. I was so bashfully in love with you in that moment. Then it was us sitting by an artificial lake under bitter sunlight, but it felt everything was just either happening awfully slow or awfully fast and I couldn’t figure out which. Then we were weaved into sillhouettes in a room full of darkness and I realised that everytime you left Kashmir and felt the shifting homesickness, I couldn’t help but feel identical, I was and am homesick equally as much as you.
Meanwhile, you’re busy and I don’t think I’m using the right words to describe my predicament because even to myself it appears like I’m accusing you in third person, I’m so sorry I have potentially reached my limit to out think your absence. I cannot stop thinking of you, I’m back in the state of quiet, scarily quiet about everything; all I am left within the wake of your absence is loneliness, multitudes if it, galore quantities which feels and hurts more than a glass shards in a body.
The last time I saw you, we never found the perfect place to sit and I bid you goodbye at a metro station, everything in me has been bottled up from that day on and I’m not sure how much more I hold inside me.
I don’t remember your address, it’s too long for me and I like simple things that can be effortlessly fed into my blameless memory; something like you, although you’re a universe of your own and I have certainly lost my way out of it. I am not the one to complain like this but I’m nonetheless and however far you are right now, I’m homesick too— darn too much.
Your home,
Ubair Fayaz Fazili.