Half a Confession-I

[Warning: offensive language and subject matter.]

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Dear Bhenchaud:

Please be a sweet mother fucker and squirm! You say feel free to unburden yourself. But by the time I hit pay dirt yara you may live to regret your words. Me? I will be freed of that worry very shortly.

They came and drove me to the hospital this morning. I do not have the physical strength to get up and take even a few steps. Either I am in excruciating physical pain most of the time or am in a drug-induced euphoria. I can take this only so much. Too bad you cannot be my Kevorkian. We have shared so much in the past and continue to share so much even now that your refusal is perplexingly disappointing. Hah, principled friendship! Abay chootiyay I am talking about helping me, for whom you professed eternal love before falling for my best friend: me, your soul-mate, friend, yaar. Principles!

You are a sensitive and tender person. Why this sadistic streak? Why do you want me to lose self respect, vegetate and whither away? This will never happen. Your resolve not to be my Kevorkian oddly gives me strength. Yaar, longevity is not a known forte in our family. Dada 43, Abbu 37, Ammi 46, Naani 48 aur tumhari pyari?

Yes, it is non-malignant they whispered. After surgery and therapy you will feel like a new cunt. So they wheeled me in for hysterectomy. A painful way to acquire respect for the uterus. Good-bye tampax! That was eight years ago? Ten? Twelve? Then two years later I had to look up oncology. Oh, now some people will have a real reason to dislike me. Will have to buy those falsies from Bollywood -- sigh -- did -- and a couple of years later had to order upgraded, reinforced versions!

After this perceived rebuff, okay so you were always interested in E and I misunderstood your lustful looks to mean youaremyonlydestinysweetie; I encouraged Kid’s advances and he went the nine yards and brought everyone over including the family chauffeur’s grandmother. That was the first wedding in the family and everyone was excited. But I suppose I could share this with you now. I had wistfully hoped you would come back to me like they do in the desi movies. But as luck would have it, I had the greatest three years with Kid.

He was funnier and more easy-going than you and much less anal retentive! My impulsive ride on the motorbike bare back to topless, daring the gods of winds and tarmac, shattered that idyll. I insisted on going to the graveyard, open the shroud to look at his face and despite protestation I kissed him on the lips one last time.

Oh that smile playing on his lips and everyone present there thought I was crazy because there were no tears in my eyes. I share your insights about the smiles that play upon the newborn and the recently deceased. I took the whole scene in and replayed every detail of that day and prior days leading to the burial. It was as if a remote overhead camera supplemented with multiple hand held cameras had recorded every second. It is an eerie feeling witnessing your own life. I get to do it for free these days.

Remember how during the college exams you were envious of me out-scoring you? You said my photographic memory was an unfair aid for those scholastic skirmishes? I vividly recall every moment I shared with Kid. I am getting tired now. Will write more later...

love you both...

pyari