Love Letters to 7 Humans I Love — Vol. 3 of 3 —{Mom, NitWit, ✰xíḉ⧷⋮}—

Kids in Love with NitWit

Life is fickle.

Death is certain.

Letters are eternal.

Love is thunderstorm.

I’m getting old as the mountains — so before some mothafucker shoots me dead in the midst of a cold shower, I gotta tell these 7 betches-&-basterds why I love ‘em more than Hannibal loves eating Humans.

[P.S. I already feel deeply ungrateful not to write to at least another 27 humans {if I’ve written a letter to you, you are one of those 27} who’ve been ridiculously kind to me & made my ordinary life beautiful. I hope —if you’re one of those 27— you’ll forgive me for my graceless ingratitude.]

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[—There is no love ranking — All 7 names appear alphabetically—]

Mom

I gotta say at the onset that I haven’t put my Mom here for sentimental reasons. I don’t care for sentiments.

Mom & I don’t even get along all that well.

Like 99.97% humans born in India, she was also, like You & I, raised to be racist, inelegant, delusional, unartistic & prudish.

And apart from the obvious mistake of polluting earth by giving birth to me, she hasn’t been all that awful. 

In life, I’ve learned that 

Entitlement is grotesque

Wealth is privilege

Happiness is unnecessary [often undesirable]
There’s nothing I lust for more than Grace, Purpose, & Courage. Because when the chips are down & Russia is sticking missiles [metaphorically] up your arse, your millions & happiness ain’t gonna save you from exploding — Courage will.

That’s what I’ve learned from Mom — Courage.

I’m talking about everyday courage for at least 40 years. The everyday courage to keep going, keep showing up when there are 17 reasons to blow your & your husband’s head off.

Though she never divorced my absent-&-alcoholic dad, she was always a single-parent, who took care of me, my sister, home, food & all finances. She took care of dad when he was bed-ridden for years.
Mom is a ferocious Spanish fighter bull in the body of a Punjabi woman.

Mom is a 24-hour human-ATM that shoots out infinite doses of love & guts.

Dad departed at 65. Mom is 66 now. She wants to live well beyond 100. Unless I’m lucky, I know she will depart before I do. I don’t know how I will be after she’s gone. I wasn’t close to dad, so it didn’t break me when he exited earth. When mom exits earth, it will change & destroy me in ways I don’t even have a goddamn clue about. But this story isn’t about me, it’s about Mom — Dolly Jolly [her name before marriage] & what a bloody inspiration she is. If it were upto me, I’d name a mountain after her.

Mom & Sis

NitWit & I going to JLF 2018

NitWit

At the onset, I must disclose two things about this bloke.

1. He has an IQ of 70 on his best day. Scientists would politely call him — Cognitively impaired. I’m not polite. I will call him what he really is — Intellectually dead / Nitwit ;)

2. He’s got boobs bigger than the waitresses at Hooters.

I met him on 1^st November 2017 at the Majnu ka Tila slums. It was the first day of my ongoing journey of teaching kids with Robinhood Army. This fucker was late by an hour for a session that lasts 2 hours. I’ve known him for 4.5 years & still he’s always late. Nitwit has the discipline of a spoilt Bollywood superstar, the bodyfat of a sumo-wrestler & such dashing looks that turn straight girls into lesbians instantly.

I’ve always been super honest with him. I’ve never pulled any punches when telling him what a dumpster his life is. I’ve been, mostly, critical of his life for the entirety of 4.5 years I’ve known him.

Frankly, had I yelled at Mount Everest half as much as I’ve yelled at Nitwit, Everest would’ve come crashing down.

I don’t have much in life. I’m not rich, pretty, or adorable — I’m mostly a cunt to even the prettiest girls — all my 16 years of writing, including 3 novels, haven’t even bought me a small mug of hot chocolate at Starbucks. But I do have an ounce or two of resilience. And Nitwit has a giant tank full of resilience in his blood. It’s a rare trait in modern humans, who are mostly snowflakes. Nitwit is one human in this world of wusses, I can trust with my life & give my life for. 

30^th August 2020 — my dad passed away when the world was locked due to corona tsunami. My sister & I were locked in different cities or countries. Not even the closest relatives — not even dad’s blood brother, who lived just a few miles away— showed up due to corona fears. I called Nitwit & he showed up within minutes — no questions asked. He lifted my dad’s naked dead body & took it to the ambulance waiting in the street. He went with mom to the crematorium & stayed with her through the cremation.

With all his glorious shortcomings, he’s still the kind of human this world needs, but doesn’t deserve. I’m one lucky skinny basterd to have this fat basterd in my life. His birthday is coming up. It’s about time I went bra shopping ;)

NitWit, Narci & Me - The Monsters :)

Calangute Dogs love ^✰xíḉ⧷⋮ 

^✰xíḉ⧷⋮

In early 2019, I wrote her first name in the first line of my novel —143 days— claiming, ^✰xíḉ⧷⋮ & I will be dating on 1^st April 2020. I didn’t even know she existed when I prophesied that She & I will be together on 1^st April 2020.

On 1^st April 2020 — ^✰xíḉ⧷⋮ & I were together.
Is that serendipity, coincidence, destiny, or miracle?

Whatever it is, it’s bloody beautiful.

—Nothing is permanent, but memories— we made plenty together.

When I finally read both her raw-poetic-bohemian mails 117 days after she had posted them to me, I wrote her one too.
I was in Bombay, she was in Ahmedabad. A day after Christmas, I was with her in Ahmedabad.

Eights months later, she was the first human I spoke with when dad passed away. 

She was in Ahmedabad. I was in Bombay. A day later she was with me in Bombay.

‘Don’t pluck your eyebrows’, she would often reprimand me

She’d ask me to oil my terrible hair. I listened, but didn’t oil.

One day, we were walking in Calangute — a shard of glass pierced her foot. Blood gushed out like a Tarantino film. I quickly bandaged it, but she couldn’t walk anymore. I carried her home on my back. 

She is endearing when she is awake. But she is at her endearing best when she sleeps like a baby on Pablo Escobar-cocaine till 11.11am. I know — I’ve seen her.

She laughed every time, I would say to her “I was born naked.”

She laughed when I’d say “Nothing tastes better than dead babies.”

She laughed when I’d mispronounce La Pino'z Pizza as La Penis Pizza

Little joys become birds when shared — we shared thoughts, books, movies, walks, tea, polaroids, t-shirts, sandwiches, podcasts, letters, love, life

Every memory I sketched with her is engraved in my blood.

Our time together was like leaves — fleeting. Everything we made together is a lot like oceans.  

P.S. Of all the humans I’ve met, ^✰xíḉ⧷⋮ really got me.

We don’t talk anymore. 

Does that alter how I feel about her? 

Emotions are Beauty — Feelings are Flesh.

Emotions are Make-up. Feelings are Blood 

Emotions are Water — Feelings are Diamonds.

If my feelings alter depending on how the human on the other side of window feels for me, then my feelings are emotions disguised as feelings. 

Feelings don’t fluctuate like fashion. Feelings are solid like mountains, like trees.

I feel exactly what I felt about her on 10^th February 2020 when we found love. Exactly what I felt about her on 29^th March 2021 when our love went missing.

P.S. Of the three women who’ve shaken my heart, she got the worst deal. When we met, I was already too old, too broken, too difficult. My heart was often icier than Siberia.

As I wrap this little letter, I will say something that may come across as dark & poetic, but it’s just bare truth served as born.

— “One day a month, I miss her like a mom misses her dead baby, but every other day, I miss ^✰xíḉ⧷⋮ a lot more.”

Goa

Bombay