The Woman Who Writes Letters

Who is this woman?

And why does she write letters?

Many years ago

I made a rule to not make new friends.

And to let go of the hurtful ones.

And just when most

friendships were gone

I found the most blissful one.

But who is this woman?

And why is she the exception to my rule?

She lives carefree

with her teddy of a husband,

and her rowdy of a cat.

She fills crooked shelves

with whispering books.

She pets bamboo shoots

and nursery roots.

Gawks at dreary lanterns

from ramshackle roofs.

Peers at weary caverns,

with sombre moods.

She finds stories in people’s sully,

and innocence in their worst deeds.

Aydapolis is her Mumbai she lives in.

But who is this woman?

And why does she have her own name for a city?

She keeps keepsakes

of her younger self,

in preserved poems

of soulful grace.

Scribbled with magic pen,

and healing spells.

She hoards broken feathers

and shrapnel from past,

old scars and remnant shards.

When she is not writing to me

to be kind in my part of the world,

she is busy forgiving those

who are not in hers.

She has a wardrobe

of queer colours.

Love for all.

And all for love, she says.

But who is this woman?

And why does she have a lure of all things pure?

Her brain chatters

relentlessly

on frivolous matters,

slinging poems

atop lyrical ladders.

She goes by Ayda.

But I call her Hagrid.

Or Hagger. Or Buttercup.

Her real name, meanwhile,

is lost in ink.

But who is this woman?

And why does she have so many names?

She nicks napkins,

and scams seasonings.

She writes letters

on stolen tissue papers.

And draws hands wrinkled

from daily labours.

And doodles stories

from people’s scars,

shading appearance smiles

with internal wars.

But who is this woman?

And why is she fascinated with people’s hands?

Every Christmas,

as the new year dawns,

she sends me a new book.

chosen carefully to feed

my mindful tricks.

One she expects

that I finish in weeks.

I take months.

Yet she waits,

so she can

discuss the characters

and their flawed choices.

She sees them

as real people with real feelings.

And hopes to be one of them in her own ways.

But who is this woman?

And why does she make me read books?

Perhaps she is

just a polaroid,

of a sharp blur,

in some sane crazy.

Perhaps she is

just a lore,

of hearsay words

in handwriting, maybe.

When the world connives

and I try

to not go mental

she writes letters

to remind me

“Do not go gentle”.

And that

to find magic

I must first believe.

And there definitely

would be no Harry,

if there were no Hagrid.

So, then…

Who is this woman?

And why does she

still

regardless,

nonetheless,

nevertheless…

continue to believe.

-Soo