Tuesday, February 03, 2009

A Postcard to a Girl

Royal Arthur Prison
1 Kingdom, London,
3rd March, 1982

Dear Miss June

I hope this letter finds you in the sweet arms of a beloved mother, nurturing you to the pinkest of health. I pray that you arise from the beautiful slumber of laziness and set your steps to the beautiful locales of New Hampshire. Beautiful sometime has more of a magic than the choicest of a magic potion used to treat queen’s illness.

Her majesty has been kind enough to spare a couple of us during the Xmas vacation. I sincerely thank the queen for her timely intervention else it would have been a case of another long year fighting for the cause of freedom and only to live to a sorid tell.

Patrick, my cell mate has fallen like a hog this spring. His story is untold. I have been told that he breathed English weather even when he chose to die. The selection of death has had come at times to us only to deluge us sadness. We are timid souls, because we are bonded by some powers, relationships and we chose to live. I stand June in your love. Perhaps to tell you a story.

It has been raining cats and dogs for the past weeks.It’s just like the crying of a new born baby, unstopped and becomes louder and louder with the passage of time. The rains coming from the Artic had been a blessing in disguise for the Hampshire peasants. It is a time of harvesting, and much like the sprinkles of afternoon grace, the rain never ceased.

All along the path leading to the churches, you can see little steps of kids, preferably learning to walk with their parents. Roger, a friend of mine, whom I acquainted in prison keeps in touch with the external world largely owing to his wife, Cathy. Cathy practice missionary charity at St.Andrew’s school, and it is through here mission that we get acquainted with the religious texts of the world.

I have destined myself to a 14 bar 18 inch room. The fan looks like more of a rustic wing than anyone can speak about. A table and a chair has been placed in this attic. I am reading, continuously reading for the past few days.

What am I reading? Oh, I read Shakespeare and Wordsworth. Ah! You were so true. Each time I read them, I get sunk in more and more of their world. Each of the Shakespeare’s characters, Shylock of Merchant of Venice or Macbeth has left me confused also. Interestingly, the relevance of Shakespeare is matched to the core in today’s world. I am left stunned as to how he could portray this when he live a 200 hundred years back.

Poetry has a name June, and yes you are my poetry. I still remember when you gave me that little piece of sonnet of Julie Andrews. I never read it of course, but to make it more romantic stole a few lines on Valentines Day. I am sure this can originally be called a Romeo’s tryst for words. But those sweetest moments in which you chose to get all wild lives for that moment. So I am hopeful that the next time we may have some poetry juggling to do. A few lines can resonate so beautiful. I enjoy the timing of the words, the crispiness, the beautiful sounds each words make is something to cherish about. I have enjoyed the early stint of the fervor and

Timing is correct, and I dearly miss you. The mismatch of the anticipation has resulted a few olives and onions to be relished with aplomb. I had quite a few of them in the following months, leading to a terrible stomach ache. The sun has been drifting slowly at the horizon, and with it the dreams and aspirations of my life.

Solitude is most of the times depressing, and it is no exception that I am rather lonely. But the only hope, that on this valentine eve, I get a chance to meet you makes me feel better. In other words, I chose to live for that day.

Time is running. I must stop here. The lights in the cell have glowed. We have an early dinner here. I don't get my favorite 'chicken sandwich' here, but that should be fine. The porridge tastes bad and is served cold. I have to rush. Hope you still wear that neckline I

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