An Unletterd’s Letter

She woke up way before the alarm. At this age, she was getting used to it. The sole purpose of the alarm was to provide her respite from aimless wallowing in the bed on nights she’s afflicted with insomnia.

Things had gotten really tough for her after her husband had passed away about a month ago. Ever since the house seemed too empty, the front-yard looked unkempt, the television set turned rusty and the backyard grass had overgrown. She was a lonely inhabitant of a decrepit house whose existence seemed next to insignificant in the well-to-do neighborhood.

Yet still, she isn’t on her own in this world. She has a beautiful daughter and a 5-year-old grand-daughter. But she hasn’t heard from them in over a year, specifically from when her husband had a spat with her son-in-law. Her husband had turned callous after the feud and had built an invisible barrier for her too. She didn’t have the courage to transgress it by herself, even after he’d passed away. She submitted to that sickly feeling long ago and now vainly hopes for the ice to break from the other side.

It’s just another day in Brookside Avenue, and she withdraws from her bed to do her usual chores. Her feeble limbs barely support her senescent frame. Her once vivacious spirit lately seems to have no impetus to be so. The pedestrian tasks of the day drain her both physically and mentally, yet she wills herself to live on.

She steps out the door, looks at the unkempt front-yard and sighs. The front-yard, like herself, either had no one to take care of or had no one who had cared enough. She walks to the mailbox, as she does every day, with a tiny flicker of hope. She opens the rusty lid and half expects to find it empty. But it isn’t.

She finds some junk advertising mails about a world tour that she’s least bothered about. She almost throws them away in the garbage can when a lavender envelope catches her eye. She halts, holds it cautiously making sure she doesn’t crumble it and walks inside as fast as she can.

She forgets about the chores and even forgets about her morning coffee. She hasn’t missed one in the last five years. She sits on the sofa down the hall and carefully opens the envelope. It has small lavender hearts embossed on it and smells like sweet perfume and baby powder. She pulls out the letter inside and starts to read it.

Dear Grandma,

Its me!! I am dieing to see you. Mom says we’ll all come and tell sorry to grandpa next week. Then we will go have fluffy candy you promised me in the exhibition last time. Can you pleese get me the pony too?

And guess what grandma?? I can right write! I don’t need mum to call you now…we can talk ourselves. We can share…umm…what did you call it? Seacrets? Yeah! Seacrets!

I can tell you about school, my new english teecher. But she’s always scollding me for no reeson. I don’t like her.

You can tell me your seacret recipeas recipies and I won’t tell anyone, not even my Barbie. She told me she likes boys now…..ewwww! So I want a new Barbie too!

I miss your pickles grandma. I miss grandpa. I miss you.

Do you miss me????

Okay mum’s calling me….Sea you soon!!!


Your Marshmallow.

She pushes the paper away from her face to keep it from getting wet. Tears stream down her face uncontrollably. She doesn’t contain herself anymore, she doesn’t feel the need to. She knows a crisis is about to befall, but that seems the least bit troublesome. She thinks of an innocent 6-year-old who looks up to her, and she would face the storm for her.

It may be tumultuous. But like any other storm, this will pass too. She kisses the letter in her hand and thinks of her marshmallow. Her tiny glinting eyes and her slyly playful smile. She curses herself for being so craven. She never stood up for herself. It wasn’t fair what happened to her, but she felt like she had no choice. No one to help her.

But she was wrong.

She’s had a month to ponder over it by herself. Only now, she is sure. She has a newfound meaning for life. She hopes to present her life as a lesson to her grandchild. She knows she may have nothing to inspire the little kid. But she does have a lot to teach her. She may not be able to tell her what to do, but she can tell her what not to.

She’ll keep her strong. She’ll make her brave. She’ll teach her to be independent. And when she says, “When I grow up I want to be like you grandma!”. She’ll say, “You will child. You will be as wise as I am today, but without having to face the troubles I went through yesterday.

And I will be here to hold your hand and guide you for as long as I can.”


What would it be like if we were transparent to our emotions?

 What if we could see how emotions flow, how they develop, like paints on a canvas. A graffiti of colors. Like looking deep into a person’s soul, literally. What if we couldn’t hide them.Would it do more good than bad?

I can’t help but think. Our privacy would be at stake, undoubtedly. But wouldn’t it be easier for everybody? People wouldn’t have to pretend, they can’t in fact. There’d be no misunderstandings, no apologies. No arguments , no lies. Nothing to hide, nothing to fake. No waiting for responses, no expectations.

Everyone would be showing off their true colors. People wouldn’t have to use complex words to express how they feel. Our face would make it self-explanatory.

But the transparency of emotions and the vulnerability, would drive the human mind crazy. The boldness of the truth, would be a slap in the face. A bare faced lie can fool no one. People pleasers would be impressing no one. Everybody, without choice, would have to be frank.

Also, we wouldn’t enjoy movies as much. On-screen romance wouldn’t be so convincing. Every scene would show different emotions, emotions that bother the actors in their personal lives. Nothing would be in sync. The facade put up by actors would be rendered ineffective.

Not just the actors, we all adopt pomp and show that masks our reality. We live in a pretentious world where we believe we’re happy. Our wants and desires keep us busy in a mechanical loop. We sweat and toil, preoccupied in chasing stars. We lack the time and sense to acknowledge emotions.

Emotions build relations. Both of which are extremely delicate, like the fine gossamer of webs. We’re too busy expanding the web, to notice that our framework had been wrong all along. We’re too complacent to repair the tears. We’re too timid to take time, and too lazy to make time to understand. They need utmost care and comprehension. This is where transparency would kick-in for a noteworthy change.

But I’m not so sure about all this. Although I’d like to see how it’d be, I don’t think I would want that to happen. Sometimes things are better off just the way they are. Everything has it’s own quirks, irrespective of our willingness to accept it. But one thing’s for sure, your emotions are always transparent to the person who truly loves you.