A Letter to Myself

Somebody came up with the idea of writing a letter from your eight year-old self and I thought I'd give it a shot.


Dear KK,

First of all where did you get that funny name? It sounds like a villain from a Hindi movie; white suit, white shoes and smuggling brown sugar on the beaches at Mud Island. Do you still watch Hindi films?

It’s strange that you asked me to write to you. I really don’t know what to say. You probably remember how shy you used to be. Well that’s me and you can try and coax something out of me but I don’t think you will be able to. I don’t trust you enough to open up to you. I know you’re being nice and you’ll probably encourage me to just say what I feel but I won’t speak to you. I don’t speak about my feelings with strangers, even if they claim to be me. Do you remember what that was like?

I guess you don’t, since you have a blog and write freely to the world. How did that happen? How did you change so much? I can barely leave my room when guests come to visit and here you are chattering like an aunt. How about ice-cream, do you still like ice-cream? Are you married? What about Chotu? Is he still around? I just went and pinched him while he was sleeping. Ammi smacked me. Do you still get smacked? I see you haven’t lost my trick of smiling at questions you don’t want to answer. What about your job? I could never have believed I grow up to be a doctor. I hate science. It doesn’t make sense to me. I like reading. Do you still read?

You asked me what I thought of you, whether I like you or not. I do. You are kind but a little far away. I like how you think before you speak to me and don’t try to bully me with your own opinions. I like how you listen but I don’t like how quiet you are. Is it still because you don't know what to say, because the right answer only comes to you days after the moment has gone?


How much does being a grown-up change you anyways? What do you know that I don't know?

Well, I guess that’s about it for now. I could lie and say that it’s bedtime and I have to go but to be honest, it’s boring writing to you. You haven’t told me anything about myself that I didn’t already know. Also, you’re 27 years old and I’m just eight. Where’s my present? How could you show up after nineteen years without a gift?! Have you learnt nothing from our parents?

Bye,

kk