What are the chances that one gives in to an act one has ever condemned? What are the chances it happens to be me, and my sanity is challenged? Impulsively, I respond. The glued chit of paper comes from inside a book that I bought at a second-hand book stall. By page eighty of The Complete Stories of Oscar Wilde, I was distracted. I could no longer concentrate on the charm of the lucid language. The ageing folds of the pressed paper in page one thirty six was the reason. Last night I went from The Remarkable Rocket to the not-so-remarkable paper. Courageously crossing over the lines of my ethics, I opened it. I was shocked to see the name. It was addressed to me. I convinced myself that only thus I went on to proceed. Here it is:
Dear Jasmine,
Jasmine, Jasmine. How is it that you are not here? I am still the lame Maths guy who likes you, and I am still not enriched in my vocabulary. Since our English tuitions if I tried to improve it, it was only to impress you. I believe in reasons. Reasons why you aren't here, even as I am.
1. You never noticed me.
2. You decided to overlook my feelings.
3. Rishi dated you (He has always been my invisible competitor).
4. Rishi impressed you.
5. And your family (He is now a top-notch suited-booted MNC slave after all).
6. Your besties disowned the idea of you and me.
7. I never wore black t-shirts shining with the quick swish of a blue Nike tick across my chest.
8. I could not afford to take you out to places I have never heard of.
9. Places you and your friends went gaga over after tuitions.
10. You were a topper in English, and I only managed.
11. I learnt of the word 'dapper' from you, and not finding it in the then dictionary realised it must be something I am not. So, I am not dapper.
12. You loved me too but could not face it.
There could well be more reasons. As a Mathematician, I can command possibilities you would not believe in. I am sure there are. As I read Oscar Wilde, I remember your face, and the excitement when you spoke of him, of Shaw. Or, Dahl. I don't think I even pronounce their names the done way. Yet, the oldest thing one can do, the right way known to mankind, is to love. And I have loved. You.
This chit will remain undelivered as I haven't the faintest idea of where you are.
Outrageously, I miss you.
PS: I wish you were around to smile at the use of 'outrageously'.
Sincerely (even though it is only used appropriately in Letters to Editor),
Akash.
Only if I were that Jasmine, I would retrace my past to find Akash. Or so I think. Having no love life of my own is pretty pathetic. I read books. When I am old and turn the pages of this diary, I will perhaps forget that the addressed Jasmine is not me. I have sellotaped the folds so that the chit feels as strong as the message it could never convey.
Oh Jasmine, you lucky dog. How unluckier could you get?
PS: I looked up 'dapper'. Thank you, other-Jasmine.
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