The Quiet Weight of You

Hellooo,

It's been a while since I have written to you

How are you?

Crown of my head,

strands of flowing silk,

my featherlight veil of ribbons.

My pride, my beauty.

How are you these days? I know how you are, yet I still fall to the urge to ask you that.

You are perfect right now, loosely tied in two braids whose weight I can feel falling down my shoulders like two soft and heavy vines of silk.

It seems as if you really liked the new shampoo and conditioner. Oh, my dear vines, how sweetly you smell like roses. As if real flowers were growing on my head.

The duality you show is almost ironic. For I know how verily I will hate you and desire to cut you short when the sun starts to shine much warmer and the fireflies start to emerge.

You annoy me enough to hate you, while also making me feel so special. I know you blush and hide with shame when people comment on you more than me.

But all I can do is pray that their eyes of envy doesn't harm you. For that you remain always shimmering in moonlight when you play games with the wind.

I can only feel solace when you play around with her calmly; you give me a sense of freedom then. But when the soft sweet mischief becomes unruly and you flutter around with her like fire dancing with smoke, I dare you, if you someday annoy me enough, I will seriously cut you short. Which I remain very close to the urge of doing so in summers.

I want to ask you, why is it that when the clouds start to tear up and the skies become dark, you also cry with them? You fall like a tree shedding her leaves in autumn when it's still raining in monsoon?

The more I try to care for you, the more you seem to drift down. And I can't do anything but let you drop with a heavy heart that wants you to only be lovely, like lily petals in bloom.

You are a different person in every season. In winter, you cling to me for warmth like an innocent child. In spring, you bloom wild, refusing discipline. Summer, you already know. You test my patience. And monsoon... you mourn and drift down.

The more you show your tantrums, the more I fall in love with you. When you refuse to dance with my fingers as I try to set you up nicely. But you stubborn being, still want to look unbothered and scattered, like an untamed warm fire.

So attention-seeking you are. Every time I eat, do any work, or just try to observe, it is you who disturbs me. Wanting the soft touch of my fingers as I caress you behind my ears or set you up in a bun or braid that you don't like to be in. I know you like my touch the way I love yours.

You cascade down my back and flow over my shoulder; I feel every strand of you kissing my neck and petting my back.

Something you itch a little when you're wet and demand to be patted dry, you little attention seeker. How have I fallen for the looks of you and the way you move?

Remember dear, you are loved by many. If you ever doubt it, go through the countless memories you hold.

How delicately my brother oils you up and sets you in a beautiful braid. His hands, always filled with care, never pull any fiber. My heart overflows always with love and a shy embarrassment.

You remember how I secretly cut you short when father died, because I didn't want only brother to give his hair. Mother at that time only waded her fingers among your curls, singing the hum she always does when pampering you. I cut you not because brother did, but because it was the start of a different time, not of sadness and crying but of healing and growing, out of it all.

You remind me of things I had long forgotten.

The way a boy I once liked caressed you behind my ears. Or the countless times these inconsiderate males pulled at your fibers.

I obsess over the way you hide my face, like a possessive boyfriend who only wants to keep his girl to himself. Know this too, my dear love, that I enjoy flaunting you at weddings and functions.

You behave nicely when it matters, making me look enchanting. And I pretend not to like the attention, but you know I do. You look lovely all dolled up with those flowers, jewellery, ribbon and bows holding you and wrapping around your locks gently.

But I don’t like you when you get all moody and frizzy.

You take too long to dry after showers, too long to be draped into shape. Do better in those areas, please, if you want to be a good boyfriend.

I wonder, will I still love you when you turn grey? When you slowly wilt away like old flowers and vines? If you thin and fade and fall faster than I can catch? Will some nurse one day oil you instead of me? Will you miss my fingers, or will you show her your mischiefs too, never parting cleanly, always showing tantrums?

Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I think you’re the only one who’s truly seen me.

The one who stayed.

Even when I tied you up.

Even when I threatened the scissors.

Baaki, let's see if you can survive another summer.

Hehe.

A.V