Imaginative story
Until I completed my tenth grade (SSLC), I never felt the need to write letters, as I relied entirely on my father and older brother for all correspondence. I had no occasion to write independently, and the only time I might have written a letter was to submit a leave application to the Headmaster at school. However, that task was usually handled by my father.
I secured admission to the Pre-University college in Mysore, opting for the Science stream with the goal of pursuing a Master's degree in Science and becoming a lecturer. Sanskrit was my second language. Interestingly, students from the Arts section, both boys and girls, would join us for Sanskrit lectures, as the number of students choosing Sanskrit as their language was dwindling.
I was an avid reader of poems by renowned Kannada poets. I was particularly fond of poet Narasimhaswamy's works, especially his publication Mysuru Mallige (ಮೈಸೂರು ಮಲ್ಲಿಗೆ), which beautifully captured the essence of true family love. I also dabbled in writing poetry in Kannada. Interestingly, I had created an imaginary muse, ಸೌಂದರ್ಯ (Soundarya), a name that evoked the idea of beauty, much like Cinderella. This imaginative dream girl would inspire my poetic endeavors.
In that first Sanskrit lecture class, something extraordinary happened. I caught sight of a girl from the Arts section who was attending our Sanskrit lectures, and I was taken aback - she was the embodiment of my imaginary muse, the dream girl I had written about in my poems. My friends encouraged me to write a letter to her, and I decided to take the plunge. Although I didn't know much about her, my mind was racing with excitement at the prospect of befriending her and, perhaps, winning her heart. I thought that showcasing my Kannada poetic skills would be the perfect way to impress her. And so, I penned my very first letter, which also happened to be my first-ever love letter.
With the letter written in poetic language, my next concern was how to deliver it to her. I weighed all the possibilities.
- What if I mailed the letter to her home address? If the postman delivered it to her father, I was certain he would storm into the college and get me expelled.
- If her mother intercepted the letter, she would likely scold her daughter and then interrogate her about my background, caste, and family status, already thinking of potential marriage arrangements.
- And if her brother got his hands on the letter, I imagined he would vow to pummel me like a punching bag the next time I walked home from college, warning me never to look at his sister again. I couldn't risk that.
I considered alternative delivery methods: asking friends or her friends to pass it along, or even enlisting the help of the college peon or canteen boy (or, in a romantic comedy-esque move, training a pigeon to deliver it, à la मैने प्यार किया!). But the more I thought about it, the more confusing it became.
Finally, I resolved to hand the letter to her personally, without involving anyone else. That way, the contents of the letter would remain private. "Yes, this is the perfect solution," I concluded, reassuring myself.
The next day, I waited for her to finish her last lecture in the afternoon session. This was uncharted territory for me, as I had never spoken to a girl before, having studied in an all-boys high school. I had rehearsed our potential conversation, but nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen. As she walked down the corridor after her last class, I introduced myself with newfound confidence, mentioning that we shared a Sanskrit class, I was a science student, and my name was XYZ. She smiled politely, likely thinking it would be rude to dismiss me outright, given our upcoming Sanskrit lectures together. Without waiting for her response or potential rejection, I pulled out my love letter and asked for her opinion on the Kannada poem I had written. She paused for a moment before dropping a bombshell: she couldn't read Kannada. I was taken aback, unprepared for this unexpected twist. All I could manage was a sheepish "Oh sorry" before returning the letter to my pocket.
Reflecting on the incident, I tried to analyze the entire episode:
- Why would she claim that she couldn't read Kannada? In Mysore, Karnataka, the education system up to seventh grade follows a three-language formula, where students must study English, Kannada, and Hindi. After that, they can opt for Sanskrit, Kannada, or Hindi as their second language, but they still need to study a third language, again that language may not be Kannada. Given that explanation, Kannada is a mandatory subject until seventh grade, it's likely she would have studied it.
- Was she hesitant to analyze the poem, lacking confidence in her Kannada skills? Or was she actually from a neighboring state, where Kannada might not be a primary language?
- I couldn't help but wonder, "Ohh! Why didn't I write the letter in English?" I tried to console myself by thinking that she might not have been familiar with Kannada poetry.
However, a couple of days later, I discovered that she was, in fact, a native of Mysore and knew Kannada well. It dawned on me that she had cleverly assessed me and the contents of my letter, and had tactfully sidestepped my advances, avoiding an awkward situation.
After being politely rebuffed, I told myself to forget about the girl and maintain my ego. However, I couldn't shake off the urge to share my letter with someone. I looked around, but couldn't find anyone who matched the idealised image of my "Cinderella." As a result, my love letter remained undelivered, a sentimental souvenir of my brief infatuation.
Destroying the letter never crossed my mind, as it held great sentimental value - it was my first-ever letter and my first-ever love letter. I treasured it, keeping it safe with me until the day of my engagement. The next day, fearing potential consequences, I decided to mail the letter to my fiancée, even after knowing the fact that... Had the letter been given to any of the girls in my college, the simile I had expressed in my letter would have matched to some extent, at least. But alas! I had no option.
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