The seventh letter..


Blunders leave you chastened. If sending a letter makes one feel, as you candidly put it, stupid, which is and has been the case in our very situation, however far that had managed to escape from your preoccupied observation, then I either have to withdraw in absolute embarrassment, or take refuge in your good intentions. I’m quite undecided for now. Dear Ibrahim, what can I ever write to tell you how much I relate. After all, I’m writing this now. I sincerely hope that you haven’t found my poor, unrefined skill at correspondence in any way awful. I’m too sensitive to take such a blow now, especially that the entire endeavor had started with my fingers.

I have downloaded your book, and had read most of it. I believe you already know of my take on your writing, but let me tell you that I was quite impressed with the order you had chosen for the posts. I’m not sure if you did actually choose that order, or if it was some other mystic natural arrangement. It was too unstructured for human decision, and it knew how to build itself in the reader’s subconscious as they read. There’s always perfection at that time the humans step out of planning things, and let them just be. I could feel it in the order in your book. Maybe it’s just me, however.

And you know what, ibhog? Since we’re speaking of letters, I believe we’re thinking too much about it. Why not leave that to the divine arrangement that had ruled your book? Why interfere? I have spent three months deliberating, tossing and turning, with that dream stuck in the very heart of my sigh, before came that one day when it just made sheer sense. The kind of sense that comes to you unplanned. The one your heart feels, not your mind. No attachments to ailing thoughts. Actually, no thoughts. Just feelings. It’s so rare these days. People have put thought into everything. Everything, ibhog. It kills me. The blasphemous invasion of our minds over our hearts, destroying that beautiful thing called belief.

I believe in belief. That day I was strolling in the campus after a lecture induced with mental activity. I was too tired to even be depressed. Sometimes fatigue does only make you numb, which is a blessing, if you ask me. So as I was walking there, on solid ground formed out of large, dark gray cubes of concrete in some forlorn corner in my college, I saw it.

It was an infant white rose of mallow, ibhog, slithering its way between massive rocks. I stopped at it and kept wondering to myself. How does that make sense? How did this emblem of life grow from inside the very dead concrete? I’m sure you saw that too in some stroll of yours. When nature decides to invade lifelessness that way, as if it is fighting back our constant assassination of it. And when that happens, it usually is something very weak to hold any material value. For all anyone cares, a heedless foot could thump it into death again, or a stupid love affair can pluck it lifeless. But then I remember, Ibrahim. This wasn’t made to make sense to our minds. For our minds, that entire prospect is worthless.

But for my heart. My heart cried. Tears just flew, unreleased, untied to my shackling thoughts. It was too senseless for my mind to interfere, so I’ve felt it completely. I am grateful for those rare moments. I knelt before the tiny rose, weeping, and tapped it gently on the head, and told it to hold on. I swear I could feel it smile back at me.

This is how I think about these letters. If you happen to have the mind to kill them, please do, clean and fast. But if you happen to have the heart to nurture them, to believe in them, they will continue, Ibrahim. Even after we die, with different people, in different times, because if such a thing is valued that much, it’s pasted to the timeless soul of this universe, unrelated even to humans.

My words in the last paragraphs are broken because that which I’ve been trying to capture with them is too vast for language, please do forgive any affront to good prose..

When you see young roses, remember me, Ibrahim.



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