Revisiting RadheShyam

To New Beginnings!

Krishna,

I know you might be surprised at this letter business, considering that we've just barely become friends. And just friends, for only Narayan knows what your twisted dictionary defines that as.

I can only imagine how long your response to this is going to be – defining friendship and defending your twisted dictionary. If possible, please give that long sermon in a verbal form when we next meet. It'll save your ink, and I have a feeling your voice is better than your handwriting.

So Vishakha was of the opinion that since we don't get to meet that often, and since you talk too much, let's use letters to get the extra talking done. And to be honest, handwritten letters are special. They're like love you can touch and keep. That's why they're only for people you know can and will treat them like a gardener treats his most cherished flower. I'm not sure why, but I think you will.

Anyways, let's come to my primary concern. Who do you think is that bansiwaala I told you about? Even as I write this, those notes are filling my room and nobody except me seems to notice. Room was still fine Krishna, but that tune fills the whole of my head until I can think of nothing else. Let me be honest to you, that music sounds like someone's message to me, in a language I can't decipher. All I can do in response to that is stand and stare, helpless. Call me crazy if you will, but that is how it is. You promised you'll find who that is, remember? Please fulfill that as soon as you can.

Not that I don't enjoy that melody. I would be lying if I said it isn't the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. If I had known who this was, in some parallel world I would've danced my heart out to that beauty. In fact, some days I do imagine myself, in those beautiful woods by the Yamuna, dressed in my favourite pink-and-blue, dancing like I've never danced before to that bewildering tune. In that moment, I know, nothing else will matter. Not the woods, not the Yamuna, not my dress, not my world, nothing. Only that flute, and the flutist if at all he exists. Before you remind me, Krishna, I'll say it myself – Yes, this is all fantasy, in some parallel universe, in a random teenager's mind.

I'm sorry about filling half your letter with some random person's stuff, but that damned flute is still playing and my hand seems to have a life of its own! But this is all from the deepest corners of my being, crazy stuff I've never tried telling anyone before. Somehow, some parts of me trust you enough to let you know how delusional I am. I've let you, officially, into that world of illusions I construct and brutally destroy every once in a while.

Before you start being your privileged proud-peacock self at the above words, let me remind you that entry into my world was given to you, solely due to one reason :

I whole-heartedly believe, and your mischievous, almost-as-if-they-contain-the-entire-universe eyes confirm that, YOU'RE EVERY BIT AS DELUSIONAL AS I AM.

Your newly-made Sakhi,

Radha.