A Letter To My Dead Wife

Dear,

I have been good. No. Not really. I wouldn’t really lie to you. Things have been tough. Tougher than before. But it’s the harsh privilege of being alive you see. It’s imperative to deal with something ominous to feel alive. It is when life seems a burden one feels he is with it – with life. It is like being a woman with a little child inside. It’s like being pregnant. I should say then, I am pregnant with life! That’s quite an absurd analogy right there, you would say. But you won’t. You aren’t alive.

We would have breathed in every street and in every fort in Delhi. Maybe you would have been a painter. You would have made a gorgeous painter! I can feel you painting away your sorrows and fears. I would have seen your liberation. Or maybe you would have been a dancer. Swerving, swaying, flying. I would have seen your passion. Or a beautician maybe! Oh! How happy I would have been then! I would have said, naively, looking at my nails, “You know dear, I am feeling like to have a manicure..” and then you would have laughed hysterically! I would have seen your love. But I can’t. You aren’t alive.

I would have seen you doing things for hours. I would have seen you doing nothing for hours. I would have seen you for hours. I’d have made a living out of it! I would have never fought with you. Or maybe I would have. You would have never cried. Or maybe you would have. We both would have. Maybe only me. But I would have been with you. Crying and fighting we can manage. But we can’t. You aren’t alive.

Maybe you would have been an atheist. I would have been a heretic then. Maybe you would have been a Hindu. I would have visited that temple with you, where you used to go everyday, when you were little. Maybe you would have been a Christian. I would have read Psalms with you. I would have been better at singing them than you. I am fairly sure about that! Maybe you would have been a Muslim. I would have learnt some Urdu. I would have been thrilled to see the moon with you. I would have kissed you then. But I can’t. You aren’t alive.

I would love to see your face just once. But you die everyday. You die as if you don’t love me. You die without a reason. You are killed without a reason. You are killed for those things for which I would have loved you. Things have been tough, dear. Tougher than before. It’s hard to live in Past Perfect Continuous. I am tired of using ‘would have’. Yet I wish you would have lived. “You wish a lot!”, you would say. But you won’t.

Farewell.

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7 comments
  1. nehal said:

    I wish a husband would have written all that before his wife was dead. She would not have died. do express urself before its too late!

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