Bughum Exhorts His Beloved In A Letter (Unsent)

Always dear,

Sudden jerks and jolts reach significance. And there is all the beauty before destruction. My primal fear is your primal fear. But you and I scare different. There was a thing I sought and found in your absence, which you will never know about. And that’s pretty much the only thing you have missed. I have been as ordinary as I was. And though I have always been on the cusp of a personal revolution, I know the ordinariness of the utopia afterwards.

The world is too big to register minor differences of ours that seem so untenable to you and me. The world is too big to entertain small talks about weather or our future. The world sees us as we see ourselves in a dream – shorn of body and plausibility. The world is a tragedy written with you and me and regardless of the terrible conclusion, a substantial part still remains unplayed. People are watching. Will you come on stage?

At any point the linear distance between you and me, front and back, is the circumference of the entire world. Even when you kiss me our backs are an entire earth apart. So, so much for proximity. Lets not talk then about it. I am a constant feature in all your dreams and this is a comforting thought. Ideas, dreams, dogmas, and prejudices are a more close and compact unit than our bodies. Fanaticism is not the solution, but it does for a seeming one. Come and be a part of my organization. I would write to you a pamphlet and shower you with slogans and there would be news in the air. We would have so much visible fun. Though, do not bring scrupules. We will have language provide the morals.

The river has us almost falling. The bridges bridge our need to bridge. A very physical world waits for our return and we have a profound feeling that we have fucked up. Haven’t we? Reflections have a knack of being apparent. Yet there is some truth. Some truth in the mere act of reflection. Some truth in action – some truth in a body in action. Sharpest noses are usually the smallest. I leave it to you to find the larger significance of this unverified fact. Today, I have shared a lot of my soul with you. I expect you to do the same. Do you have a soul?

Always yours,


An Ordinary Mind

Dear T,

Lets start from where we left. Rather, you left – in a hurry, as if the world depended on you buttoning your shirt. You jumped off the window and you ran to save someone. No one knows who. Neither do you. But you ran, nevertheless – you were always a great runner, and its a pity you waste that on saving people who do not, in the least, want to be saved – away from me. You must remember you were thinking of running away even when there wasn’t a hint of confusion between our bodies – when our noses sauntered hand in hand and your lips were like a fallen leaf lapping every ounce of the infinite space, before falling on its back. I could have made you the tree in the last image but trees don’t run and also, a fallen leaf carries with it the utter imbecilic insignificance and crippled roving of your thoughts that night. What was I thinking? you must think, if you have forgotten. I’ll tell you, because I have not.

Not only can I read minds but I can write them. And you were lucky I left yours untouched that night. But it was hard not to look beyond those brown eyes. Last eight years there hasn’t been a night I haven’t gone back to that serene confusion in your eyes, to that moment when I decided I would have a look what’s beyond the shiny surface. You remember you always told me that you were just an ordinary man, and I always strictly disputed that and told you that you had the most beautiful mind. Well, that night I came to know that you were right. I was seeing the inordinate ordinariness of an astonishingly singular mind, almost special, if I can say, in its singularity. I started noticing the incongruities of my body – the little more hair here, the little less hair there, the insolent rise of the nose, the disastrous fall of the breasts – that stood like absolutes in your eyes, and I ended up, stranded, twice removed from myself. Its not that you weren’t trying. You were. You always wanted to get past the carnal pitter-patter but the sheer ordinariness of your mind doesn’t let you go beyond that extra facial hair. I sometimes almost pity you. It must be frustrating to have all the strength in the world but still not enough to face a soul.

But what was I thinking? I remember that too. As I told you earlier I decided to look what’s beyond. And as I found nothing but a vivid nightmare, as real as your nose, I started hating – first myself, then you. And that hatred was not something abstract, it was right there, flesh and blood, holding you and kissing you – it was like being pregnant with it. I could feel my blood curdling to create another me inside my body and I felt it grow and take hold of my entire being, right from the red meaty parts to the little hair on my lip that I saw in your eyes.

It was good that you left, or else I would have killed you. And what would have been the fun in that? There’s nothing that salvages an average moralistic mind as death. More fun is to see you live, while others die. More on this in the next letter, or newspaper – whichever comes first.


P.S. Something on my soul; flourishing.

This letter is a part of a superhero series that I’m working on. To know more about the man this letter is addressed to, click here. And the lady who has written this letter, well, I hope I will soon write more on her.

A Letter To My Dead Wife


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.