LLC02: Love Letter after Decades
Creative Writing – Love Letter Contest 2013
© YourStoryClub.com
It was the day when I got two new sheep for breeding in my tiny butchery.
A normal day on a small street in Secunderabad. Seven in the morning. People rushing to the Bowenpally vegetable market as there was no tomorrow. Masala dosa crackling on a large pan for the early eaters. An old lady sweeping the floor. A man, just awaken, brushing his teeth. Some of the yellow school buses are already passing by. And I am chopping the meat as always in this dusty butchery inherited from my father.
I mostly slaughter chicken. Chicken after chicken go through my knife every day. The sharp blade when I hear their last squeal before they become only feathers and meat. Blood splashed around the walls. That’s my daily life. I sometimes look at the street. I can see it very well. My door is open. The street is my TV when I eat or have coffee. That keeps me going for long hours that I run in this butchery.
I just had my breakfast and morning coffee. Immediately after that, I am back to work. I take another chicken and I am ready to take away its life. I have seized it in my left hand; my knife prepared in my right one. I will cut its neck in the next second, but then an annoying fly gets on my eyebrow and I am forced to raise up my face to repel it. That is the moment when I see you… The view strikes me so deeply that I just look straight having forgotten about my knife and my chicken.
It’s my first time to see a white girl. So real and brave walking down the street from the Bowenpally market. I notice your white forearms and blue fabric skirt swirling between them. Some rickshaw drivers pass by you and offer a ride, but you just keep walking. The sun shines so brightly that you look like an angel on this dusty road. You are coming to the direction of my butchery. I am very sure you are not here for me, but I feel a sort of aura beaming towards me anyway.
I can’t remember if your beauty was the reason for me to postpone killing the chicken I had intended to kill or the sheep that started bleating for water. Or perhaps I imagined they were bleating. My two new sheep. Anyway, I put the chicken aside, then take the pitcher of water, go out of my butchery and toss it to the two new companions. That gives me a perfect reason to see you closer.
It seems like you are lost. Your eyes, disguised in black, massive sunglasses, your golden hair tied back in a neat pony tail, and your pure face showing a slight anxiousness as you try to ward off the pushy rickshaw drivers and keep on looking for something. This is not a touristic area. Just a small street in Secunderabad. But here you thrive – fallen from clear sky. Calling to someone. Looking nervous. Until a yellow school bus stops by and you show a noticeable relief to get in. I imagine how your fragile skin gets refreshed by the AC and for some reason I feel happy for you – not to suffer longer on the hot Indian street. Your skin looked so delicate – as if it relishes only cold breeze, as if the sun would only harm it. I go back to my work to kill the chicken I had postponed to kill.
Next morning I see you again. You have covered your legs in black pants. I can only see your ankles – white like snow they are contrasting the black, tight pants you are wearing. Red shoes. Yes, shoes. Not sandals like most Indian ladies would wear. Why don’t you wear sandals? I think. But I assume your toes are too precious to clean the sandy streets of Secunderabad. Though I would love to see them. That is then when I imagine a beautiful anklet adorning your delicate ankle and leaving a tinkling sound as you make your steps. But you don’t have one.
My mother was crazy about anklets. Though we were always poor, she was asking to my father always to buy her new anklets whenever we had a bit more money. She liked to adorn her ankles. She said only then she feels like a lady. She feels noticed and deserves respect on the street, as well as in her own house. But dad wouldn’t buy her anklets often. “No such luxury,” he was firm. I decided back then: when I start making money, I would buy my mom anklets. But she died sooner than I did that, and this is how I never bought her a single anklet…
Like yesterday, it was around 7.10 am in the morning when you were standing on the street. This time you seemed confident about the place where you need to stand and wait. I went out to give my sheep water and something to eat. I noticed you looked at them. At the two sheep. And I felt good standing next to them too.
This continued for one full month, maybe more, until that one morning when I noticed you arrived a bit late. I was always there. Standing and looking at you, but you would never notice me. You nervously grabbed your shoulder bag and removed your sunglasses. You were waiting more than usual, and the bus was not coming. Then you suddenly stepped into my butchery.
“Did the bus leave already?” you asked, your lips pronouncing the words desperately.
“Sorry… ma’am… I… I didn’t see your bus,” I said still struck by the fact that you were talking to me. It was true what I said and now I couldn’t believe myself I had not paid attention to the name of the school that was written on your bus. Later, I noted it down carefully.
“Oh, no!” you exclaimed. Then turned to the road and stepped out of the butchery. I saw anger in your face. And your ankles. Disappointment. You were looking for your phone. Ringing. And all I was thinking about was that ankle that I could have bought for you. Maybe that would have made you happier. I felt sorry for your misfortune.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” I went out too and called after you. You were already a distance away, but you stopped, turned your face and looked at me.
“No. I can’t get to school anymore.”
“How about auto?”
“Doesn’t make sense. I would arrive late. Takes like an hour and a half to get there,” you said.
“I am sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s Ok,” you said as you had come closer to me and for the first time I saw your strikingly blue eyes so close. They were two beautiful lakes despite the deep worry that you carried in them.
“I’ll text my coordinator. Should be fine,” you blenched and took your mobile phone to start texting. I felt guilty about having stared at you. I thought you would probably leave now. There was no reason to stay. But you were there. I was there. We both standing within a stretched arm’s distance next to the two sheep that had been leashed to a rod outside my butchery. I stood silent. I realized I had my knife in my hand. I hid it behind my back. It didn’t feel right that you see it.
“So, you’re a teacher?” I asked you. Wanting to keep you longer here.
“Well, intern.”
“From America?’
“No. Europe,” you responded nonchalantly, partly looking at your phone, partly looking at the street.
“Sorry, I have to go,” then you said and left. I felt your cold breeze as you turned your back and I was still thinking about that anklet, anklet, and anklet. Perhaps, I would see your warm smile if I gave it to you. I had never seen it, but I somehow knew you had a sincere and warm smile. Your eyes told me that. Sometimes when looking at somebody’s eyes, you can visualize the smile.
I went back to chopping meat. Pieces into pieces. Who was I anyway? Finished five classes at school. Orphan. No education. No future. Only this constant smell of blood that I didn’t even feel any more. Only my hands that knew how to kill, how to chop. That only. And nothing more. Only my heart who longed to love, but never got a single taste of it. Maybe the anklet. I was still thinking about the anklet. I didn’t have much money, but perhaps I could find you one. A special one.
When you got off the school bus at around four in the afternoon, it was the opposite side of the road, so I could only see your back. You would carry the daily fatigue on your shoulders – bags full with students’ notebooks and your pace much slower than the one that you used in the morning. That was a safe stare for me as you would never look back. You would disappear into the Bowenpally market, now empty of vendors and vendees in the afternoon. Even then, as far as I could see you, I would never take the knife in my hands. It somehow felt wrong.
The mornings were always the same. I never dared to talk to you. You came hurriedly to catch the bus, smiled at the two sheep as if greeting them and never really paid attention to me who was there giving them water. You also had to look on the road. Not to miss the bus. You mostly had your sunglasses on and the earphones in your ears. But I cherished that moment when you were standing next to the butchery and I could admire your white, delicate ankles. I wanted to know your name.
I was always afraid to disturb you. Then, one morning when your glance at the two sheep was longer and you even dared to pat them, I found it a perfect moment to ask for it.
“Ma’am, what is your good name?”
You turned to my side. I was standing and waiting. You removed your sunglasses and I noticed kindness in your eyes, your lips were frozen for a while as if you would be thinking whether to say or not. Then you said: “Laura.” Your voice was mild as the rain we cherish in hot Indian days. It caressed the dust on the road as the cars, buses and rickshaws were passing by. You kept turning your head on the right not to miss your bus.
“Nice to meet you, Laura” I stretched my hand. Then I realized you might not want to take it as you might find it stained with blood and meat. But I had washed it before. I always washed my hand when I went out to give food and water to the sheep. It was clean.
You lingered for a while and then you took it. It was a fast and insecure handshake. I felt your fragile hand, not allowing to seize it fully. Like the morning dew that you always want more, but those drops you feel, you would keep them forever.
“I am Ali,” I added after a short pause as I was looking into your eyes. You turned your face right again and then your school bus was a reason for you to leave.
“Ok, bye,” you said and ran away quickly.
“Wish you a good day, Laura,” I managed to say. You probably didn’t hear that. Your legs were running fast in this dusty road. You were wearing red skirt and black tight pants under it. Again I saw your ankles and that view charmed me. I was thinking of making a red anklet with engraved “Laura” for you. There was nothing else I could think about that day.
When I was young, my dad, who was a butcher too, taught me that learning how to make halal meet and cut the windpipe so that the animal bleeds to death slowly is no less important skill than learning how to read and write, sing and dance, study science and arts. “What you do is important as long as you think it is important. How will people live and work if they are hungry?” my dad used to say each time when my eyes wandered outside this butchery watching how the yellow school buses pick up children like me. They were not always happy to get in a bus. Often still sleepy in the early morning. Accompanied by their bossy parents. I wish it could be me there…
It was the morning when I had slaughtered the two sheep on the day before. You came as always some minutes past seven. With your sunglasses. With beige pants that almost resembled the colour of your skin. It was my ritual now to go out and give water to the sheep for the past few months. But there were no more sheep. I would get new soon, but not today. So, I didn’t go out, I just observed you from the butchery. I didn’t even expect you to notice my morning absence. But you noticed something. I saw despair suddenly striking your grimace and in the next moment you ran in the butchery and turned to me furiously.
“Where are they?” you yelled.
“What ma’am?”
“The two sheep. You killed them! You killed them! How could you do that?” you yelled without any shame, you had removed your sunglasses and were holding them in your right hand like you would like to swat me with them. Your blue eyes watery, and suddenly your entire face was all in tears.
“Ma’am, ma’am, Laura ma’am…” I wanted to explain something. Like this is my job. Didn’t you realize that I was going to do that? Even the sentence from my dad came to my mind at that moment. What you do is important as long as… as long as you think it is important. But I couldn’t say a word. My hands were by my side resting peacefully, my tongue unable to utter a sound. I just let you run. To your bus. Run like that. All I could think about then was that I didn’t even give you that anklet. I hadn’t even bought it for you. And it was too late as I never saw you again after that day. Your bus passed by furiously skipping your spot. You had changed it to the other one. Or you had left the school. I had no clue.
I could never forget your tears. You seemed such a naïve and pure child to me. And I had wounded you as much as I had wounded myself having neglected your fragility. Laura, slaughtering chicken and goat and sheep was my job, and till the day I saw your tears I did it because it had never occurred to me that I could live the other way. That I actually deep inside didn’t enjoy what I was doing. In fact, I had never questioned the words my dad had left me to live with. I have to confess: you made me think, Laura. With your beauty, your charm and naivety. You made me rethink what my own father had told me. Find a different angle to his words.
It has been fifteen years since that day you left, and I am not a butcher any more. I worked long years as an apprentice at a jewellery shop, and now I have my own shop here in Secunderabad. Thanks to you, Laura.
I don’t know where you are now. What you do. Whether I will ever see you again. But since that time when you took my heart, I have not been able to forget you. That life span of the two sheep. Those mornings when you came there waiting for your bus. I have been through difficult times, but now I know and agree, that “what I do is important as long as I think it is important”. I have reserved the most beautiful anklet for you, Laura. The lightest, the most fragile one, with white pearls and tinkles that make the most beautiful and most innocent music as you will walk with it on a street. Just like you, my Laura. If only I could ever give it to you…
With Love,
Ali
P.S. In order to send this letter, I kindly asked to your school for your home address. I hope you don’t mind.
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