How Not to Write a Love Letter

This day 16 years ago, I wrote my first (and the last) love letter sitting at the last bench. It was a cloudy day, and the occasional thunderstorm rattled our chemistry classroom. The feeling inside me wasn’t any different from the weather outside: like a tingling, palpable sensation when cold drops of rain touch your bare skin. She was sitting on the second bench in the middle row, unaware of the storm brewing in my heart. When the teacher started teaching the process of Galvanisation, the urgency to inscribe something on the blank page galvanized my words into action. My bench mate, Riches Chetri, had no idea what I was doing. He was too busy copying down chemical reactions, which then made no sense to me (given that we were in the tenth standard, his frantic note-making makes sense now). Too late. The release of oxytocin blinded me completely. The idea was to deliver the letter by hand, taking into account the consequences that would arrive with my action. Once done, scribbling my heart out, I folded the letter carefully and put it inside my glossy geometry box. Then began an endless wait for the last bell.

 

*School Bell*

 

She was in her white uniform and was on her way home, which was only a couple of meters away from school. To reach her home, she used to take a side-walk that went around a small pond with beautiful and colorful lotuses in it: pink, white, and purple. I wanted to get her a white lotus but the pond was deep, so I left that idea. I quickly got down from my bus (I had to be quick. Missing this ride would mean walking eight kilometers through a swirly forest road), and I ran hard. From a distance, I called out her name. She stopped and turned.

 

“Hi,” I was panting hard.

 

She didn’t reply and was shocked to see me there.

 

“Take this,” I begged. “Please read before you throw it.”

 

“What’s this? And why are you giving me?” she questioned.

 

From my peripheral vision, I could see my yellow bus moving.

 

“You know very well.... Don’t you?” I almost fumbled with my words.

 

Her lips parted to let out a faint smile with her perfectly symmetrical teeth when she heard me. Punching my fist towards the sky with joy, I rushed towards my bus.

 

She never replied to the letter, and I never complained (though I grumbled to her while sitting at a random Cafe in Delhi, six years later).

 

This whole episode of crushing on someone, writing a letter, and delivering it by hand was an experience in itself—something I will cherish for the rest of my life.

(Our beautiful tenth standard classroom)