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May be it’s still lying in the post-box in Dhaka, that looked like it had not been opened in a long time. But the man at the international counter in the post-office looked at my skepticism through his thick glasses and insisted I put all of my 18 post-cards in there. I had hand painted them so I really hoped a few of them would reach their destination. I sighed and nodded ‘OK, I’ll put them in the post-box’.

So the letter I wrote you might still be lying in that post-box in Dhaka, or it might have been one of many or the only one that made it out of there. May be it lies now in a post-office somewhere between Dhaka and wherever it is you’re living now. I sent it to your last known address. Or may be it was the only one that reached its destination. You. And lies torn to pieces, disintegrating, the blue ink and water colours no longer reminders of me. Or may be you kept it, tucked into a book somehwere or thrown into the pile of papers and stuff on your mixing table, as if forgotten but traceable, if you wanted to find it, someday. Like you and me have become to each other, as if forgotten but traceable if we wanted.

I suppose it is where it is supposed to be. Isn’t that what you’d say? Nevertheless it is one of many testimonies to you and me, concrete evidence sent into the universe that you and I existed, that we indulged our fantasies about each other only to be deeply disappointed. Why would we be different from all the others who believed naively in the possibility of finding their one destined soul mate in the infinity that is this universe? It would be nothing short of a miracle. And what had we done with our lives to deserve miracles anyway.

And, who knows what soul mates are supposed to do in our lives! It is one possibility that soul mates spend their lives together as partners serving to carefully conceal the reality of our undeniable loneliness. Perhaps they come and go, perhaps they are not one but many, perhaps they don’t exist, confirming our existential loneliness but also unveiling our self-delusion that we are somehow special, different, from those living seemingly carefree (or careless would you say?) lives. All we have are these questions for now. Answers will come in good time apparently, or they might not.

In any case, its not done yet in my head. There are chapters to come, truths to be revealed, epiphanies to discover. What part will you play in all of it? That of a distant muse or a close conspirator? Another question I will have to tuck away unanswered.

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