To Whom This Was Promised

Dear Doctor Sahiba

 

It’s been long since I wrote any one a letter, for some reason I got tired of it. I usually write a lot of letters, to friends, to Sylvia Plath, to my fiancé, all written and stowed away in either the cardboard box at the back of my jeans stack, or in the hidden folder inside the many folders that clutter my desktop. Maybe this will be another, maybe not.

 

So what does one write in a letter? Pleasantries? Inquiries? Inane gossip? Stuff that doesn’t concern anyone and therefore concerns all. Do my letters have all these? Will this be the same? No and no. My letters are a way of letting you into my locked vault, the key to which I never gave anyone, but it is opened every now and then. I’ll let you in myself this time; invite you in, give you leave to do whatever you please with a portion of me that I give to you.

 

It’s never simple, writing to someone. And it isn’t easy writing specifically to you. I don’t even remember how we became friends. I visited your blog when I first entered the blog-o-sphere, followed it and occasionally came back to read the snippets from your med school life that you left there for us to laugh at. And then there was Facebook, then twitter, tumblr too.

 

Anyways, all that is besides the point.

 

Then what is the point? I don’t know. My train of thought derailed just now because Robert Downey Jr. showed his beautiful face on TV.

Truth is, I really like you. And I trust you enough to make you my family doctor when I move to Islamabad  (I don’t care what you specialize in). Please become a complete daaktarni by then.

 

And because the introduction to this letter was so not like the main body, maybe I’ll put in a little poem to conclude it (not mine).

There was a Young Lady whose chin,
Resembled the point of a pin;
So she had it made sharp,
And purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin.

 

Yours

Bongi

 

 

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