My Dearest,

Today is Christmas.

One of many 25ths of my 25th year. My first 25th of the 25th  year.

It reminds me of you. I know you aren’t very fond of it.

You like the sound of raindrops hitting the soil leaving a petrichor effect.

Yet, this cold chilly winter festival of gaiety and piety wears your reminiscence. Both aren’t mine to claim. Yet both have stayed with me – Christmas and You.  I know not what is this, that I feel. To find you even in places you don’t exist, in things you dislike.  It’s just like the seasons – changes colour yet the same every year. Like the decorations on a christmas tree – a new element added each year. Yet the same lush green with a white furry coat. The same you with a different element


Is this love? Then I am in love with you. If not, then what is? I do not know. I only know , the hole has started to fill. Not by surgery or by pain; with your existence instead. Perhaps, all of love is an illusion- just like life; like Christmas. Yet, till it ceases, it is a reality.

I must take a leave now. I can’t sign off with you; not because I can’t but because I know not how. I can’t call you by name , as I don’t know how to call. You are rightly named my dear – a king. A kshatriya whose religion is to fight unto the last.

So, farewell my dear.

Until I write again. 
Until I pour my heart out. 
Until the last fight. 
Until christmas rests.

- December 25, 2015

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