22 June, 2024

Dear Anand,

The monsoon rains must have come by now.

Washing away the dust, soot and thousands of footprints left on the brown laterite walkways from the season past. The forts heaving with relief; to be alone for some time; to breath, to be able to listen to waves crashing on shorelines below without it being muffled with noise from the crowds.

The fields quietly drinking in the rains, the palms swaying in a lullaby as the Goan skies finally closes in and gathers locals to retreat. To rest, to heal, to prepare for the winters. To get ready for a brand new tourist season in October.

Lately I have been revisiting places where we once ran barefoot. Though we had made no promises, it felt like I was breaking an unspoken understanding that we would always return to those places together. I found myself in the backroads of Goa again few weeks ago. All the shacks were gone, the marketplaces rolled up and rowdy foreigners nowhere to seen. The air was so heavy that I had to open my mouth to breath, thick in sultriness, time was slowed, everyone waiting for a merciful release.

I left before the skies broke. I have since put on my bucket list to see the first rains of monsoon. I now understand why so many kavis over centuries have penned about sawaan and the return of love as it begins. Perhaps somewhere in the first rains, I might you see you again, Anand.

Did you know that the Koreans believe that if you happen to be outside when it first snows for the year with someone you like, it will blossom into a long and lasting relationship? I might put that on my list as well but then I don’t like the snow as much as you don’t like the heat so chances of finding each other at either is too far-fetched to manifest!

But will love be the same as we both knew it once if we did meet again?

I’ve come to realise loving someone becomes harder as we grow older. Especially if you meet someone new. Don’t ask me anymore of who, Anand, as it might hurt you more than you’d want to let on. I once thought a burning ardor like ours was all that it mattered, all that was enough for a lifetime. But I was wrong. Just love is not enough. With some people – how they come into our lives, for them to sit for a while, to stay – love is not enough.

I wonder what would it be like if we got a monsoon season in our lives whenever we met somebody for the very first time?

Where we could put down some of the baggage we’ve been carrying in trust with another, grieve with them parts of our past lives that we couldn’t because we were too busy carrying its weight, perhaps let the rains soothe some of that burning agony they’ve both been walking in for some time.

Maybe in the 2nd month of monsoon, one could ask the other of some questions? Like;

If I hug you softly with all my love, will you feel suffocated? Will that make you want to run away?

If I ran my hands through your hair, will that make you more agitated than comforted?

If I kissed the scars on your back, will it end up burning your skin?

Tell me, how do you want to be loved?

I’ve come to learn, Anand, that sometimes how we show love and how people want to be loved; need to be loved are two very different things. And the distance in between can be very vast.

Though distances don’t mean they are not right for each other. It just means they will have to do some work.

To let their guards down, to learn how to communicate; with words, with hands, with tongues. To listen, to counter, to be able to articulate where exactly the cracks are the deepest and what you need to fill them in. You will need to do the work to heal yourself.

So that by the time winter arrives, you are ready for love. To receive it, to give it back and to duly ask it to stay.

Love,
Shyamni. x