Sarah, the dream of faith, its manifestation, and unparalleled beauty.
You don’t know me, Sarah, but I know you.
You are the girl, married to a part of my past – to the adorable little boy, who used to be my brother’s best friend.
I saw your picture, Sarah.
On the last day, of this beautiful year, I got to see your picture.
The picture had you, your husband and his younger brother in the frame – and my heart was at once filled with a riot of fond emotions.
You are so beautiful – your face has the charm of a mother – and I know that you are perfect for our best friend, because you, my love, are exactly the kind of woman who enters a home, and keeps the family unified together – who nourishes homes in such ways, that their split parts come together, and the previous hollowness becomes wholesome.
I owe it to you, really, to be giving this amazing life of love and safety to my childhood best friend – the kind of life, my brother and I, only dreamed of having, someday.
Our childhood, was the pitter-patter of rain on the roof-slate of a loving home, the comfort of togetherness, the warmth, rife with gazing wonder.
Your husband, was a very timid child, and on many occasions, I, in my zealous curiosity toward the human experiment, made use of his timidity, to scare him ever more.
For instance, one day, after school, I’d found him lying about something silly – and I told him that children who lie like that, have their mothers taken away from them.
Your husband was so scared that night, that he hugged his mother, and cried all night.
The following day, I was scolded by everyone for having scared the poor child.
I am really sorry, as on many accounts, this bullying behavior, would have caused him considerable distress, which was incomprehensible for the childish mind that I had at the time.
My brother, had me warned many times, as he was fiercely protective of your husband.
However, those warnings I did not pay much heed to, because I found your husband to be very amusing – especially as to, how he would respond when we, the wilder children of the lot, tried to scare him.
On the eve of Rakshabandhan, I would invariably tie Rakhi, the sacred thread, onto the wrist of all my brothers, including your Husband, and be garnered with all kinds of beautiful gifts – including colorful bangles, make-up kits, dolls and henna, everything that a little girl adores.
With such abundance, and protective love, my days, were peaceful, joyous, and aromatic – the horrors and the fears, had no room to speak for themselves, because I was heavily shaded by the canopy all these beautiful people had formed together.
Our breakfasts had two dining tables, one nourished by the kitchen of your mother-in-law and the other by my mother’s kitchen – and from one lip-smacking feast to another, our bellies were filled and our hearts fulfilled.
Shaded under the expansive trees of Neem, Ashoka, Drumstick and Custard Apple, our whims and fancies were extravagantly simple, life was merry, it wasn’t a wee bit exposed to all the miseries, we would eventually be enrolled for.
As we would carelessly, zoom on our bicycles through the village, speed taught me freedom, it taught me how one could stay calm even in the face of storm.
The quietness of river streams inspired my soul, and forests, taught me to dream.
A childhood, that still leaves me feeling breathless, and which continues to be my anchor, somewhere I can come back to, whenever the sailing gets too murky.
Our moments together were endlessly beautiful – we were a hapless gang of children, all boys and me including, who invented merry games, competed on video games and we infected your husband with the love of cricket – a dream he never got to chase.
A batsman, with incredible talent, and blessed naturally with the beauty of technique, your husband, was a star player, the homeboy of school cricket.
It’s a broken dream, my love, Sarah, that he still holds in his heart somewhere – it was one passion that he had great intensity for, and he never got to live – because of societal constraints, that pushed him to have a more sorted traditional education, and a 9 to 5 work life – which he found meaningless, for quite some time.
I don’t know what one does with broken dreams – but I have a hunch, that with your love – which is warm and sunlit, with such grace and profoundness, my sweet Sarah, you will be able to touch the coldest parts of his consciousness, and make him forget his pains – and give meaning to a man’s meaningless strife.
I suppose, those broken dreams, have a select method of being healed, with the nourishment of a woman’s love – a woman who feeds, nurses, and enlivens empty spaces, with the goodness of her spirit.
Sarah, the coming of you, in a man’s life is the rain of sunflowers – of hope, of newness, of spring.
You are the kind of woman who picks up all the pieces, and uses a part of herself, to set those pieces together, so that one may make sense of them.
My Brother, if he were here, he would have been a great friend of yours, and I am sure he would have blessed you and loved you as much, as I now do, albeit without the effect of your knowledge.
Our best friend, and your husband – has come up to be a marvelous man – who no more harbors those reflections of doubt and fear, that I saw him have, as a child, a lad, or a young man, who felt life was meaningless, who felt depressed and infested with hopelessness.
I see a certainty on his face now – and I know that it’s you, Sarah – who was able to bless him with that strength.
Sarah, I know what a lonesome existence can do to most, it takes great courage to live a life of regrets and yet, not be bound by them – infact, it breaks one so bad, that they often enter and leave, measures of self-deprecation, of shame and hurt.
Regrets accumulate heavily when one feeds themselves with morsels of loneliness.
However bright one illuminates themselves, if the brightness has no object where it can project itself, no room to brighten, it is purposeless.
The entire purpose of that grandiose illumination, is to illuminate, and to illuminate, one must have company, where they share it, portray it.
For your Husband, it will be you. For you, it will be him.
This is not to say, that one may use someone in some way – intimacy is a pure play of balance, of synergy, of mutual energies harnessed, that it would need no thinking, Sarah, and you have birthed that river, in your Husband’s previously dreary landscape.
You, my love, are a woman to be glorified – your loving embrace, unparalleled.
I picture you, Sarah – draped, in a white and gold Kanjivaram, with your wet hair, wrapped in a cold towel, just like your mother-in-law’s, offering her obeisance, at the portal of Tulsi, before the Sun God.
As the first rays of dawn, strike your dainty beauty, the tall figure and the honey-gold skin, those soft pink lips begin to chant the Gayatri Mantra, and a fresh breeze of air, enters your loving home, through open windows – warding off all evil, warding off all previous moroseness.
That fresh breeze, that is you, Sarah.
All My Love,