LET ME ASK MY HEART

Hot tears dripped down her young face as she read and re-read this letter. And when she compared it with the letter that was already in her possession, the volume of tears increased even as a red-hot anger coursed through her body.



Why was that letter in Mother’s room? Shouldn’t it have been in her own possession? Yes, He was a regular visitor to the house. He would always greet her mother with a hug and kisses on both the cheeks before Mother gently swatted him away. How come she had never noticed before the sudden sparkling light that illumined Mother’s eyes whenever He came over?



Was it possible that the letter was meant for her mother? Ugh! This was not possible and it was downright obscene of her to even entertain such thoughts. It must have dropped out of His pocket when He went in, last evening, to ask how Mother was feeling; she had been having a bout of pneumonia. And then He must have forgotten all about it. They often forgot the world when they were with each other. And it was last night, when she had gone in to soothe Mother’s fever, that she had seen the letter on the bedside table and had recognized his handwriting, especially by the ‘y’, curled with a flourish. The way He wrote ‘yours truly’ could make any girl’s knees go weak; her knees had too, in a way, when she had first seen Him.



Her friends and she had been marching in a protest. The police, too, had been gathered there, in full force. Across the picket line she had seen Him, standing along with his classmates, and at that instant their eyes had met.



The electricity between them was palpable; she had to get to know Him. An empty stomach, the unnaturally hot English sunlight and the overriding desire to meet Him, took their toll, all at once. She felt the world swinging in circles before it blacked out. It was His eyes she looked into when she regained consciousness. She smiled and they had been together ever since.



Back in India, their love had blossomed and He had become a regular visitor. He had looked stunned when He saw Mother for the very first time and she had even teased Him about it. He had laughed it off, but there was a split-second when she was afraid she had spoken a truth.



And now, this letter.



She loved Him. She loved Him much. She loved Him too much.



And because of this love, she must trust Him. She had to believe in Him and his words. Even, when a voice, deep down within her, cried to be heard. A voice that said she might be making a mistake.



That voice was mirrored in her mother’s words, “No! Not Him! He is not a good choice.” Mother, who almost blossomed whenever He visited.



And when her father heard of it, his displeasure was apparent in the one sentence he uttered, in his clipped, Cambridge-educated accent, “Indu, no love can be greater than love for one’s country.”



She was in awe of her father. Her mentor, her leader, her guide. She shared him with millions of others, many of whom loved him as ‘Uncle.’ At least He was just hers.



He was the antithesis of her father. She loved His joie-de-vivre, His love of life, His eyes that looked deep into hers and showed her a glimpse of Paradise. She enjoyed it when they argued and fought, over matters trivial and serious; and she loved it much more when they made up afterwards. Her lips curved upwards in a secret smile, in blushful remembrances, the tears momentarily forgotten. The sweet -nothings, in His impeccable diction, which He whispered into her ear, did fluttering dances in her whole being while her heart raced and blood gushed into her ears.



She picked up the letter again, her heart doing its usual somersault in response to anything that was about Him. He was not her only admirer; the jewellery box in her secret locker, stuffed with sundry love-letters was testimony to that. The truth was she adored Him and only Him. The road ahead was too bleak to envision without Him.



She picked up the quill. Her hand shook slightly as she dipped it into the ink-pot. The elegant letterhead beckoned to her to make a decision.



The besotted, tender 17-year old hands wrote, “Mon amour Feroze, Je vous adore.”