Category: letters

A letter to you for a word/sentence.

A letter to you for a word/sentence.

Comment down below and let me know what you think. It’ll mean a lot.

To you,
For every time a woman said no.

I need you to listen.

When I was ten, my mom thought it was important for me to learn two things – one, that tomatoes weren’t vegetables and two, that ‘no’ is a sentence. The former because it was the only mistake I had made in my science exam sheet. The latter because every child should know the chaos not knowing what ‘no’ means has caused. My mother spoke to me about her experiences and told me about things that would make me human, or in her words – ‘ would make me happy’. This conversation became my bed-time story that night and I am really glad it did.

Last night, I read about what you, a thirty-year-old, had done to that eight-year-old girl. You will be punished for that and so, this letter is for you to read in one of these two situations – one, if you ever get a second chance to be better in this lifetime (which I know is unlikely) or two, if this letter finds its way to you in your next life when you’re ten. I really want you to become better – so much so, that I am willing to believe in re-births.

When you heard the word ‘no’ for the first time, what did it mean to you? For me, it was when I asked Baba if I could have two ice creams back to back. I was three. When he said no, I didn’t even think about questioning it. I just bought a chocolate instead. I like to think of myself as a writer when I am alone and so, I am going to give my memory a metaphorical reference for you to become a better human. When a woman says no, do not question it or try to persuade her. If that doesn’t make you happy, then get the chocolate – be genuine, ask her out on a date and see if you connect. If that doesn’t work out either, then just read a good book and fall asleep. This isn’t a metaphor.

Being human is really easy. Trust me.

With hope,
The man assigned to hang you to death.

Previous posts: I fell in love with my best friend.
Instagram: @myspirals

Give me prompts in the comment section. Oh, and share this a lot, please?

A letter to music – gratitude and stories.

It has been a long time since I posted, huh? Needed a break, sorry. I am back, though. Let’s enjoy this! I hope you like this letter-format I’ve recently started trying.

To music,

From Ghazals to ‘Kiss me’ to ‘Dusk Till Dawn’, this has been a long journey, hasn’t it?

When I was six, I could barely speak English. My tongue fumbled when I spoke English because it was a foreign language that I still wasn’t used to but I could hum the tune of ‘Chand Sifarish’ and not miss a single note.

In my 10-13 year old phase, my all-time favorite memory that I often find myself telling people is how me and my family would go on long drives and have sandwiches and hot chocolate and listen to an endless number of songs. My sister and I had a playlist that we would listen to on our way to school every morning.

When two broken pieces clash, they break into smaller pieces. When I had my heart broken for the third time, the only leftovers of my heart was dust. With earphones jammed into my ears and a few fancy dance moves, music turned it into fairy-dust that I sprinkled onto everything and healed myself.

My point is that you have literally always been there for me. Be it in the form of a language, a memory or a magic trick. You’ve witnessed me grow up from when I was a few months old and my parents would sing me lullabies to today when I listen to ‘Girls like you’ on repeat.

I heard somewhere that old weapons are sometimes melted and musical instruments are made from the metal. I guess that explains the bullet wounds some of your lyrics leave behind, and it also explains why playing Antakshri when I was ten felt like going to war.

Thank you Music, for being my metaphorical shoulder to cry on and literal ‘always’.

Yours,
Utsav Raj

Previous post: Not every forever is a cliché.
Related post: To all the #METOOs

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this! Also, I’m probably going to post an exclusive poem on my Instagram handle (@myspirals) on Tuesday at 9:45 p.m. IST, so drop over if you’d like to read it.

A letter for home.

Delhi is a city in India, and so yes, this letter is to a city. I hope you like this!

To Delhi,

Whenever somebody asks me about the best relationship I have been in or the place I refer to as home or just the city I get nostalgic for, I take your name. I often ask myself this: were you The One?

I was twelve when I shifted to India from Dubai. Now anyone who has seen you knows you are not the love-at-first-sight kind. It takes time and maybe even ages to fall in love with you. A month before I shifted, I came to you with my father to find an apartment, a school and maybe a reason to not leave Dubai. You gave us five. Overwhelming traffic, impolite people and horns so loud that I didn’t feel like listening to music for two days. But it is said that when you love someone, one reason to stay is enough. You gave us a beautiful society to stay in.

Just like any other heartbroken dude you might have come across, I lamented for Dubai for weeks. I spoke non-stop about the best things about the place I used to live in as a child. You would have grinned so hard if you possibly could. I remember very vividly that our affair started on my first day in an Indian school. Three girls walked up to me, shared my chips, and spoke to me for hours. I fell in love with you because of them.

Ever since that first day, you introduced me to pretty women and novels and parties. But here are the two things you gave me that I will forever be grateful for: my first heartbreak and poetry. I met the girl that would later promise me homemade cookies and personal stories and completely leave me in awe of her. I wrote poems with grammatical mistakes but a lot of love and short stories with tons of feelings just for this girl and that made me happy. She was way out of my league but exactly everything I would want. You have me things that made me ‘me’. How could I not call you home?

Delhi, I know I broke up with you abruptly and I miss you too, but I guess we weren’t meant to be. You’re still my home, though.

Write back to me someday?

Yours,
A homesick me.

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: Two best friends and a strange story.
Related post: To all the #METOOs

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!

To all the #METOOs

To all the #METOOs,

In autumn 2017, the world shuddered as a hashtag (me too) spread across hundreds of walls burning thousands of ignorant beliefs in its wake. The world realized that things were not okay. Whispers became loud stories and you accepted openly the things you have had to go through because of humans that went rogue. For most men, it is next to impossible to understand the pain you go through every time you have to talk about that one or many times you felt an unwanted hand on your skin.

The first girl I fell in love with shared her story with me once. It was a winter night and we had just started getting to know each other when I noticed some stories etched onto her wrist in red ink with pens that looked like knives. She was really young when it happened and I remember I was silent for quite some time when she told me everything.

A few years before that, my sister told me about the time she had to go through it. I had to sit while my mom shared her story too. And another close friend of mine told the story of how she was six when it happened. My phone lit up like a Christmas tree with a string of ‘me too’ staring me in the face. All these wonderful women I have been with in my life still stand tall, straight and with battle scars that look a lot like tattoos.

I can’t do much except promise you to never be that man you loathe. Also maybe, I can make a character out of him and kill him in my book for you. You let me know, okay?

Consent has become a foreign language and I am so sorry that you are suffering because of it. I am sorry some men didn’t let you become the Khaleesi that you were meant to be. I wish you didn’t have to stop talking just because you were in the presence of an important ‘influence’. Honestly, fuck them.

Stand tall, stand real and stand the way you want. I am with you. Always.

Yours,
Utsav Raj

Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: The story of the trees.
Related post: A tale of the five senses.

Give me prompts in the comment section below and share if you liked this!

To my favorite author.

Dear John Green,

*Spoiler alert for anyone who hasn’t read his books.*

Your books are paper, but your stories are not. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me so much about love, life, friends, ourselves, our choices, the marks that we leave and about the great perhaps. For the thousand times you put into simple words the emotions that humanity has been struggling to understand. I know you did not define what love is, but you did tell me what it looks like, John Green. You made me realize that pain demands to be felt and that the world is not a wish-granting factory like the Genie. You taught me that everything except the last thing is survivable.

You were the light at the end of the road, reminding me that we never have to be hopeless because we can never be irreparably broken. You told me that love is keeping the promise anyway. You made me look for Alaska, and you made me let her go. You taught me that the only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive. You told me that everything that happened is just a fabrication of things as I remember them. You made me aware of the spiral of my thoughts and that life ends in the middle of a sentence.

You put me on the roller coaster with Augustus Waters and Hazel Grace Lancaster, and you showed me what love can look like. You gave me serious traveling goals for my bucket list, John Green.

“I fell in love the way you fall asleep: Slowly, and then all at once.”

You taught me that some infinities are bigger infinities, but they’re infinities nevertheless. And that everything is a side-effect of dying. You made me believe in friendships and forevers, no matter how long they last. When Augustus used his wish for Hazel, I realized that love is not necessarily fancy dates and pretty gifts. Its a thought wrapped in colors of patience, sacrifice, care, and humor. When Q looked for Margo, when he believed that she had left clues for him, and when he got angry when she didn’t turn out to be like the image he had, I learned to accept everything as it is, to do whatever it takes to find the thing I love and to be real.

When Margo told Q that everything is uglier up close, and Q told her that she was not, I realized that love is looking at all the scars and fears and faults and loving the person anyway. When Pudge fell in love with Alaska, I realized that love needs no story. And when he finally let her go, I realized that love is strength to hold on, and strength to let go. The scratches on paper that you gifted to us and the marks that you will leave behind are made up of realities and fantasies.

You taught me that love is not ending up together, and you taught me that it is turtles all the fucking way down. Hazel and Gus, Aza and David, Pudge and Alaska, Q and Margo are all part of me now. Thank you for gifting me the ultimate dumpees. You see, what you must understand about me is that I am a deeply unhappy person, and you made me happy, John Green.

Yours,

Just another fan.

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Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post: Inside my head.
Related post: Palettes of life.

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