Dear D,170px-trutovsky_0042789994439192373881.jpg

Yes, I know it was yesterday. But like your books, I suppose, you too wouldn’t care for worldly conventions; conventions like wishing someone on their birthday. So, I have taken the liberty, and without feeling guilty, of wishing you birthday a day late. Just why though? You can’t hear me. You can’t see me. Heck, you don’t even know I exist! Then why?

Well, because I can hear you. Whenever I find the walls closing on me, I slip to the underground to talk to you. Or I plant myself on the sofa and listen to your fleeting reflection, patiently unfolding the solutions hidden in the very equations swamping me. And sometimes, the worst times, mind you, I simply haul the accused you and draw strength from your mind-bending indifference and disarming clarity.

Also because I can see you. When the trusted ones shock me with their betrayal, I hold the hand of your idiot avatar and steal a glimpse of your innocent face, a masterful demeanour you always seem to conjure at the right time. Or if I am in mood, I hanker, past the pinch of needless conversations, after the solitude under your white nights. I take a long walk in your dimly lit , serpentine alleys which glow not because of how it is built but because of who inhabits it.

And the experiences I gather are so relevant, personal and persistent that I know you exist. In the wisdom you have left behind that throw new meanings upon every visit, in the benevolence you have gifted that spread like a protective cloud to block the dark skies, in the power you have infused that neutralizes most ferocious attacks, you exist for me.

And no one shall convince me otherwise. Not even you.

Happy Birthday.

Wherever you are, party a little. It’s okay to be drunk for real, for a change.


[Image courtesy]


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