Dearest Chhuti,
Summers are here, in their complete glory, and everyone is having a slice of you. But not your K. I am having curd, lemonade and watermelons instead, all the while pining to share some with you. Wishing we could swim together, as dusk greets, or even, sleep a little longer in the artificial atmosphere. Wishing nights were not filled with demons of Past and Future, but were a whirlwind of Present ease instead.
Summers are here, loveliest, and they are nothing of what the English poets claim. The only possible way of greeting the sunny competitor would be if I were smeared in you. You know, you make me wish to do stupid things -- like take my Little One piggy back, and dump her on the bed for a longish noon nap. You make me wish for ice-creams (no, that I wish for all year round), and puppies. Yes, you heard it right, puppies. Who yelp joyfully when scheduled times of departures are not adhered to. You make me drowsy without a drop of alcohol, such is your charm.
But these are all the things that aren't.
What is, though, is me and such scribbles of quicksand escapades. What is, though, is my longing love for you, and all acts of our togetherness. What is, though, is, painting thoughtlessly, and washing off the colours under the shower, seeing the blue desire drink up the red passion and a violet ecstasy appear on all possible whites.
From that land of colourful white lies,
K.
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