DEAR DI.MO,

CHAPTER-I "I BAPTIZE YOU IN THE NAME OF..."

EPISTLE-I
DEAR DI.MO,
By the time you read this,years will have passed. Whatever you are doing right now, I want you to stop it. We need to talk. Myself, a Present Personal. You may recognize me as your past. A faded face beyond ages...I can't predict your state of affairs but I really hope that time has been kind to you and you are doing well. Though it is said to always live in the present, it cannot be ignored that assuming you have a good life is my allegiance. So, these letters can be about anything I want it to...as long as it is something I want to tell you or ask you.
I pondered the question of what you eat, what you drink, what you wear and even where you live. I even awe whether you have connections with aliens! It is kind of flabbergasting as well as mysterious to think about the future. You may feel the same when you get to know about your past.
What is now obtainable here is just moments to share. I remember my mom telling me stories about her past. I remember she explaining how different things were.
Time was slower.
Days were slower.
Homes weren't strange.
People weren't senseless.
Emotions were felt.
Words were spoken.
From fossils to factories, the transition was foreseen. From sandhouse to skyscrapers, the transformation was unanticipated.
Still we prevailed...

EPISTLE-II
DEAR DI.MO,
Writing to you is a jot strenuous. I found it too taxing. It is like I'm trying to use my memory and imagination together like two hands engaged in the same muddy work of digging up the past and present to bestow the future, a delicate piece of work. But you know why I love doing this? Because, in the end you will realize that the secret was not much of a secret. The truth will be unleashed, leaving our guilty footprints.
It was all like an obscured dream. More of cloak-and-daggers, I can barely recall. I felt a warmth around me and realized someone was holding me. I was crying but the people close by me were all smiling at me. In a matter of minutes, I fell asleep and felt some changeover happening.
I woke afresh, holding the hands of a big young man. We were walking through an aisle towards a giant beam of light. The place was incomprehensibly magnificent. An endless prospect of magic and wonder. "It is your story. Feel free to hit them with a plot twist whenever you want. Do try to open all doors. If it doesn't open, it is not yours. But there will always be a window to quench your curiosity." The man broke the air of silence. He faded away prior to my reply, leaving me the keys to life.

EPISTLE-III
DEAR DI.MO,
"Do try to open all doors. If it doesn't open, it is not yours. But there will always be a window to quench your curiosity." The words resonated as I embarked the journey.
Felt like I was being guided towards the first door. The door was overly ornate but a bit dilapidated. Nothing was going to budge it. The surface was engraved like that of a Renaissance painting. There was no handle, no lock, no hinges, nothing to grip on. The door opened straight away as it was waiting for my advent.
I met a man, a two or a three. They looked different from each other. One was wearing a white cape dress with a long cross chain. Another, with a piece of cloth wrapped around his body. I spotted two eyes in a long black dress staring at me. Each one of them told me different stories, of different men, in different places, with different languages. But the descriptions were quite similar. A man? A force? A prophet? A saviour? "GOD" that is what they call it. And the stories were about something that we don't choose, but as they proclaimed, something that chooses us. People call it "Religion."It gave them bad reasons to behave well, when good reasons were actually available. They threatened me with their beliefs although what they preached was about 'love'
Dear Di.Mo, I was there not because I was supposed to be there or because I was trapped there. But because, I would rather be there so that I could lead you to fight for the things when you feel defensive about something that you believe.
My mouth was shut, I could barely make any noise. I was dragged away to somewhere. With my bleak vision, I read the rickety walls: "For thine grace, shalt they die; For thine grace, shalt they kill". For a while all I could remember was the silence of darkness until I found something different in the corner.

EPISTLE-IV
DEAR DI.MO,
In a strong woven cloth with irregular edges; backed and framed as a surface of conflict; I saw a baroque yet figurative piece of untitled image. It was well detailed but abstract. The whole old-schooled images that appeared in front of me were fighting to breathe for life. The voices were raising minute by minute. It was a kind of an argument. An unsettling squabble for possession!
Unclear and ambiguous. But I figured out what it was all about.
There was this man who lived in the Terrestrial Paradise. He lived in the serenity and contented innocence, effortlessly reaping the fruits of the Earth. He once met a girl who described him about a world beyond his garden. She described it detail by detail. He once and forever imagined the picture she gave him. With the colors squeezed out from the heart of the shrubs and trees, he spilled his mind in the woven linen piece. The hollow cup when struck makes a tone; a sepulchral structure of someone they adore; a river outflowing from the noggin (if you know what I mean). All the images made no sense; but to him, the imaginary world was much better than the reality. But maybe he never thought that the colors he spilled out of the bloody roses would never become the cause of spilling real human blood.
Here...between the chaos I saw the brightening colors alluring them to get possessed. One by one they argued to prove their ownership, that concomitantly proclaimed the superiority of "what chooses you".

EPISTLE-V
DEAR DI.MO,
Escaping from a crowd is not always an uphill struggle. Especially when people around you are busy shedding blood of their kith and kin. They argued on what they eat, they argued on whom they worship, they argued on who is superior and all those arguments led to the war of ideas and perception.
A door at the end of the big messy room with no carvings took my attention from all the commotions happening around me.
The moment I entered the room, I became the focus of attention, haunted by the fact-filled emotionless pair of eyes. Then I realized it was all just a beginning...