To whom it may concern
O, gum hai kisi ke pyaar mein dil subaah shaam, I wrote. Fingers hovering over the keys, I hesitated, wondering what more to say. That said it all, didn't it?
Gmail went ding at me. It was you. Hey babe, what's up, you typed. I smiled like I always do, at that address. It's fun to talk to you.
I said I was writing a letter. To an absent toy boy, I added, with mischief. I want letter, you demanded. I smiled again, at that imperative sentence, at your terse phrasing and the conviction, that certainty that you will get what you ask.
I don't care if you wrote it for someone else; I want letter, you said. It made me think of toddlers and tantrums. I abandoned the letter; it wasn't getting anywhere anyhow, and wrote to you.
Hey babe, what's up, you typed. I said I was working on a post. Do a post on me, you demanded. But what will I say, I hedged. Say I am nice, you said. You are nice, I typed, smiling.
I wasn't too sure about it before we met, but now I know you smile as you make those statements and declarations. You are nice. You make outrageous remarks, extravagant statements and imperious demands. You are nice. You make me smile, and sometimes laugh out loud. You are nice.
But, a post on you? What would I say, that you fascinated me, and intrigued me? That I found you pleasant company, easy to talk to? That you were, in fact, sweet?
I dithered. You went into spoilt brat mode, demanding a post. I want post, you said. I will come to Calcutta and stage a dharna in front of your house, you said. I smiled. I will thee kulichify, you said once, and I smiled then too.
So I abandoned the post I was working on and wrote about you. After a couple of paragraphs I realised that I didn't want to share you with others. Your demand is hereby declined, regretfully. You get no post.