Dear Hawa:
The white woman strides across the Bombay street like some lost beast in the jostling jungle. The unified honking almost saturated with communist flavor. And you with mouthful of dust and mud, gently nibbling my forehead.
You can't trust any reality. The consciousness of seven apertures is the only truth.
I don't know myself anymore. My consciousness has no connection to what physically constructs the self. My limbs are just parts that are auto-receptive. The exterior is felt in isolated facets. Absent - the internal knowledge and effort to tie it all together, to react. Self - feeling everything yet nothing is felt.
You won't be reading this.
The yolk yellow rectangular light muffed by a mosaic curtain behind which the I was and the you were twined together into one. The I am becomes stranger to that "one". It's as if you're the one turning the chili toast orange, you're the one adding drumbeat to the pop-songed earphones, you're the one slowing the fan down, turning it off. Through you I live everything. You are ubiquitous, you are amorphous, you are cool wind.
Otherwise, in our respective solitude, in the firm embrace of the hairy monster, in the rotting piles of finished remains and unfinished businesses, you return to your anger, I return to my shame.
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