An Old Story

Dearest Ketaki,

I am writing you the oldest story of all. It has everything- love, passion, sorrow, envy. It stinks of every greasy, sweaty, proprietary palm that has touched it; it has the stale smell of cliché and the potency of bromide. The permanence of the plot sickens me; I find it strange that the actors do not object to wearing the same worm eaten, moth-ridden costumes thousands of actors have worn before. After all, there is such a thing as hygiene. But I digress.

There were two girls that I loved, Ketaki. Does that seem like an old story to you? It sounds hollow to me, even now, as I say it. False and insincere. Maybe it is this falsity that is crucial to my story.

See, I already call it my story. I am caressing the rented costumes and the jaded dialogue and the desperate melodrama. And in the completeness of my tragedy, I am screaming. Every night the curtain goes up on my act, night as backdrop, this is my role, these are my lines, and I am screaming, “There were two girls that I loved, Ketaki.”

One was all the stars of the night, Ketaki. She was champagne bubbles. And you could spend the rest of your life counting the stars and the bubbles. But you wouldn’t, because you were so busy getting high on her. You know? She was the infinite universe, and the point from which the universe began, and the big bang, all rolled into one. She was cause and effect. She was like an axiom. No, that isn’t what I mean. She was like an element. She was elementary and unalterable and you couldn’t really do anything with her, you know, except drink her in and get high on her. You do know what I’m saying, Ketaki, don’t you? Her words were razor sharp, and she used her mind like a whetting stone, and she literally cut her way through life with them. She was frightening, Ketaki, sometimes, like a warrior.

And the other one, Ketaki? She was peace itself. She was clarity and simplicity. Like a glass full of cold, clean water. Just looking at her would sort everything out in your head. Then everything would be easy and simple and just so right. You could sit with her and watch her do some work, like cutting oranges, and her every movement was beautiful and economical and peaceful. She would sit and read a book, and she would let me rest my head on her lap, and run her fingers absent-mindedly through my hair. And her touch was a lullaby. She was white, Ketaki, to the core of her soul, she was the foundation of my dreams. I would have died for her, or killed for her, just to keep her serenity untouched. Just to not break the glass jar of cold clear water.

Does this seem like an old story to you?

Will you write me a line? I miss you so.

Love,
Arnab