I opened a bagfull of letters yesterday. Letters written to Sri over the last four and a half years, mostly in the first two years..
While technically speaking Sri and I met online, and then met in person, I used to still write letters to him. Some of this had to do with the fact that when I was in my undergrad, I would out of boredom start scribbling letters to him, and then fold it up and give it to him. Later when he went to Ahmedabad, the same story, me writing letters to him during the boring lectures or during the long hours spent in the library. (My little breaks!)
Random snapshots, squeezed into paper envelopes. And it takes patience to write. As I discover now. I am lazy. :)
But in those letters, which are not really *love letters* as one would expect – I see a clarity that I seem to have once possessed. The ability to look at the world with such *crispness*. Some of them even have sketches in them .. :)
Vague observations. Something about Marx, and sometimes about Raga Shree. Or something about the change of seasons, and how much I love drinking coffee and tea. Mundane. Mostly *not interesting* to an objective eye.
I suddenly feel old, and a lot less intelligent! And so much less.. aware..
