The Letterbox

Don’t cut it…
because your hair does things to me that you don’t even notice.

When you flip it absent-mindedly,
something in me forgets what it was saying.
When it falls forward while you’re thinking,
I lean in without realising I’ve moved.

Your hair is the first thing that pulls me closer
before words, before intent, before courage.

When the wind catches it, I watch.
When you tuck it behind your ear, I melt.
When it brushes your shoulder,
it feels like an invitation I don’t deserve but still receive.

It softens your strength.
It frames your fierceness.
It makes your quiet moments louder to me than your loud ones.

When you walk away, it’s what I follow.
When you turn back, it’s what reaches me first.

Cutting it would feel like removing a verse
from a song I love too much
and know by heart.

Trim it—yes.
Let go of what’s tired, what’s frayed, what’s done its time.
But don’t take away the thing
that pulls me toward you
even when I’m trying to stay still.

Because when you flip your hair,
I’m already gone.

Some men look into eyes
and lose themselves.

I…
pause at your feet.

Not because they are beneath you
but because they carry you
through worlds
without asking for applause.

That anklet…
the one resting gently on your skin,
doesn’t know its fortune.

It circles poetry.
It listens to your pulse.
It moves when you move
as if afraid to miss a moment with you.

Your feet don’t walk…
they arrive.

Soft steps that don’t disturb silence,
yet change the air of every room.

There is grace even in how you stand still.
One heel relaxed,
toes slightly alive,
like music waiting to begin.

And somewhere between admiration and surrender
I realise

I don’t want to hold your hand first.
I want to sit quietly
near your steps.

Ava kaaladi la vizhundhu kidakkanum.

Not to worship…
but to rest.

Because a woman who walks with such calm
must have storms she never speaks about.

And if love means anything,
it is this

Wanting to be the ground
that never lets her feet hurt.

There are things in this world that get closer to her than people ever can.

Her earrings are one of them.

They sit there… quietly,
right beside her thoughts,
swaying with every word she speaks
and even when she doesn’t.

If they could talk,
they wouldn’t tell stories.
They would tell truths.

Because they know.

They know the difference
between when she’s listening
and when she’s already decided.

They know when she’s amused,
when she’s holding back a smile,
and when she’s just being polite.

They know when she’s angry
not the loud kind,
but the kind that settles in her eyes,
long before it reaches her words.

And they definitely know
when she’s in love.

I sometimes wonder
if they fight among themselves.

The heavy ones,
the ones she chooses on days she wants to show up strong
they must feel important.

The delicate ones,
the ones that barely make a sound
they probably think they understand her better.

And then there are those days
when she doesn’t wear any.

Silence.

Even they don’t get access to her then.

That’s how she is.

Not easily available.
Not always readable.
But always… felt.

There’s a rhythm to the way they move with her.

When she walks, they follow.
When she turns, they react.
When she pauses… they settle.

Almost like they’re in sync
with something deeper than just movement.

Maybe that’s what being close to her does.

You don’t lead.
You don’t interrupt.

You just… follow her pace.

And if you’re lucky,
you understand a little more than before.

I’ve never been that close.

Not like them.

I don’t get to sit beside her thoughts.
I don’t get to feel every shift in her mood
before the world does.

But I’ve watched.

Enough to know
that even the smallest things around her
become a part of her story.

And maybe that’s why
her earrings feel different.

They’re not just worn.

They’re chosen.
Trusted.
Allowed.

And in their quiet, swaying way…
they know her.

Before anyone else does.

The wedding was meant for her sister.
The invitations carried another name,
the garlands waited for another bride,
the rituals were written for another life beginning.

But if you watched closely,
you would know
who truly held the wedding together.

From a different continent came the couple
dreams packed between America and Mumbai,
love travelling across oceans
to find its sacred fire in Chennai.

And in the middle of it all,
there she stood.

Booking halls before sunrise,
arguing with caterers between meetings,
confirming priests, photographers, rooms, flowers, gifts
a thousand moving pieces
balanced quietly on one woman’s breath.

Her parents, both past eighty,
watched time move slower than before.
Their daughter moved faster than time itself.

Work calls never stopped.
Her son studied for his 11th-grade exams,
notes and textbooks scattered beside wedding checklists.
She moved between motherhood, responsibility,
and tradition
like someone born to carry worlds.

She mentioned it was difficult
but never complained.

Fatigue lived in her eyes,
yet grace lived in her smile.
She walked through sleepless nights
as though love itself was guiding her steps.

All she wanted
was for everything to go well.

And it did.

The bride smiled.
The groom belonged instantly.
Guests felt welcomed.
Rituals flowed like ancient poetry remembered perfectly.
Even on the day her son wrote an exam,
nothing faltered.
Nothing broke.

Perfection arrived quietly,
without announcing how much it had cost her.

And then
a day later
her parents celebrated their 80th Kalyanam.
Two lifetimes folding back into each other,
love completing a sacred circle.

But the moment that stayed with me
was not on the stage,
not under the lights,
not among chants or cameras.

It happened in a corner.

Her father sat down slowly,
emotion finally catching up with age.
His eyes filled first
not with sadness,
but with relief.

She rushed to him,
held his arms gently,
as though steadying an entire lifetime.

They both cried.

Tears of a father
who knew his duties were complete.
Tears of a daughter
who had carried the family forward.

Tears that said
I did it, Appa.

Tears that washed away
every whisper that once called her a failure.
Every doubt.
Every judgment.

In that quiet corner,
society changed its mind.
Not loudly.
Just respectfully.

She was no longer the fragile girl
people once measured and misunderstood.

She stood there
tired, fulfilled, glowing

not a daughter trying to prove herself,
but a woman who already had.

Pure grace.
Pure strength.

And in that moment,
between a father’s tears
and a daughter’s trembling smile,

I watched a lady
become unforgettable.

September 26, 2026

I love you.

There. I said it again.

I know I have said it before. In messages. In stupid jokes. In the way I keep asking for your pictures. In the way I notice your sarees, your hair, your walks, your ridiculous discipline, your podaaas, and all those tiny things about you that perhaps nobody is supposed to notice this much.

But lately, there is something else I have realised.

I love you a little more every day.

And sometimes, that scares even me.

Not because I want anything more from you. Not because I am waiting for some grand ending where everything changes and suddenly becomes something else.

I think it scares me because this little thing between us has quietly become precious to me.

And precious things make you careful.

I think that is why I understood that hug.

Inside the room, you gave me that half-hug.

Careful.

Almost calculated.

Close enough to say you cared, distant enough to remind both of us that there are lines.

I noticed.

Of course I noticed.

I notice bloody everything about you.

And somewhere inside me, something smiled and something else hurt a little.

Not a dramatic hurt. Not the kind that demands answers.

Just that tiny pinch you feel when you understand why somebody is holding themselves back.

Then we stepped outside.

My car was waiting.

It was time for me to leave.

And this time you hugged me properly.

For those few seconds, there was no half anything.

And perhaps I am a fool, but I wanted those seconds to stretch a little longer.

I didn't want to pull you closer.

I didn't want to turn it into something it wasn't.

I simply didn't want to let go yet.

And then, of course, we did.

Life has this irritating habit of continuing.

Doors close. Cars leave. People go back to their lives.

And somewhere between leaving you and going back to mine, I realised why you are careful with me.

You don't want to spoil this.

You don't want something beautiful to become complicated.

You don't want affection to become expectation, expectation to become disappointment, and something that makes us smile today to become something we regret tomorrow.

I know.

And perhaps this is the part where my eyes become a little wet while writing this, because I wish you knew how much I understand.

I don't want to spoil us either.

I don't want to take something from you.

I don't want you to prove anything to me.

And I certainly don't want you to say I love you because I said it first.

Your silence has never made my love smaller.

Sometimes, strangely, it has made it gentler.

Because I have stopped thinking of love as something that must always be returned in exactly the same shape in which it was given.

Maybe some love can simply exist.

Maybe it can sit quietly between two people.

Have coffee with them.

Walk seven kilometres with them.

Fight with them over pictures.

Admire them in sarees.

Get told podaaa occasionally.

Stand outside a car for one slightly-too-short hug.

And then go home.

Maybe that's allowed too.

Because I am not here to ruin what we have.

I am here to stay.

Not in some dramatic movie-dialogue way.

Just… here.

For you.

I will never jeopardise the life I have for you. And I will never jeopardise you for anything else either.

Both matter.

That is precisely why this little corner of my heart that belongs to you has to remain gentle.

And yes, I said little.

Because I don't love you with my whole heart.

My whole heart already carries a life, people, responsibilities, promises and a world that matters deeply to me.

But somewhere inside that very full heart, over all these years, a small place became yours.

I don't remember giving it to you.

You probably didn't ask for it.

Typical you.

You just walked in, sat there, probably rolled your eyes at me, said podaaa, and apparently decided not to leave.

And I am okay with that.

Some days that little piece laughs because of you.

Some days it misses you.

Some days it wants one stupid photograph.

Some days it wants to hear your voice.

Some days it remembers a hug for far longer than any sensible man should.

And on some nights, like this one, it aches a little.

Not because it is unhappy.

Because it is full.

There is a strange kind of crying that comes with loving someone.

Not the crying of losing them.

Not even sadness.

Just the quiet heaviness of having so much affection for another human being and nowhere particular to put it.

So you write.

You smile like an idiot while writing.

Your eyes sting a little.

You wipe them.

And you continue.

That is what you are to me.

Not a problem to solve.

Not a relationship to define.

Not a future I am demanding.

Just someone I love.

A little foolishly.

A little carefully.

A little painfully sometimes.

But mostly, very happily.

So don't worry about my I love you.

You don't have to carry its weight.

I'll carry it.

You just continue being exactly who you are.

And when I become unbearable, you know what to do.

Podaaa.

I'll probably laugh.

And tomorrow morning, annoyingly enough,

I'll love you a little more.

With that little piece of my heart,

Your Podaaa