just_sphinx
Dear Beloved Krishna My lord Krishna,
I apologise. My handwriting is neat when my thoughts aren’t in disarray. This is entirely your fault.
You have heard of me, of course, so I won’t bother with introductions (however proper that course of action may be). I fear I have fallen in love with you. Naturally, this is most ridiculous of me. People, especially women, fall in love with you all the time (so you must be tired of the novelty by now).
I don’t know much about you, other than songs and rumours. I don’t know if you like chocolate. I don’t know what you smell like, how you smile, how you laugh. I don’t know why I’m in love with you. I know why I’m in love with you, yet I don’t. I need to see you, once (and forever), to entirely realise why. Sometimes, when I say your name to myself, I cannot say anything before or after it, it feels like a language has been exhausted.
(At this point, I’m almost embarrassed.)
They want me to marry Shishupala. I most definitely do not want to (you, I want you). Not that my brothers, Rukmi in particular, give much thought to what I want in this matter. They seem to dislike you. Is that possible? (Unimaginable) I would come to you, if I could. But I cannot, and if it is possible, if it is convenient, come to me. I will be at Gauri temple, and I will wait. I would not have a bloodbath (not even for you).
Please know that I have never done anything more out of character than writing to you. I feel half-idiot, half-genius. They cannot stop this letter and they cannot stop me. All that is left is for you to yield.
In my defense, people say I’m very virtuous (nauseatingly, I think), very beautiful (a very unfeminine nose, though), and a definite preference for parentheses in prose. Do you think you can live with that?
I am yours, if you will have me (please say yes).
Rukmini
She scans the page in the journal, a hastily-hand sewn collection of palm leaves, hid with the shoeboxes, and slashes out the barely-dried ink, eyebrows drawn together in annoyed, irritated frustration, because this is not the way to say it, and it is not the way to ask it of him, because well-brought up, sensible princesses do not courier monologues to rakish princes asking them to abduct them. The perfect version has not yet come, and the page will not be ripped out yet, so she sighs and resolves to try again tomorrow (every day).
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I apologise. My handwriting is neat when my thoughts aren’t in disarray. This is entirely your fault.
You have heard of me, of course, so I won’t bother with introductions (however proper that course of action may be). I fear I have fallen in love with you. Naturally, this is most ridiculous of me. People, especially women, fall in love with you all the time (so you must be tired of the novelty by now).
I don’t know much about you, other than songs and rumours. I don’t know if you like chocolate. I don’t know what you smell like, how you smile, how you laugh. I don’t know why I’m in love with you. I know why I’m in love with you, yet I don’t. I need to see you, once (and forever), to entirely realise why. Sometimes, when I say your name to myself, I cannot say anything before or after it, it feels like a language has been exhausted.
(At this point, I’m almost embarrassed.)
They want me to marry Shishupala. I most definitely do not want to (you, I want you). Not that my brothers, Rukmi in particular, give much thought to what I want in this matter. They seem to dislike you. Is that possible? (Unimaginable) I would come to you, if I could. But I cannot, and if it is possible, if it is convenient, come to me. I will be at Gauri temple, and I will wait. I would not have a bloodbath (not even for you).
Please know that I have never done anything more out of character than writing to you. I feel half-idiot, half-genius. They cannot stop this letter and they cannot stop me. All that is left is for you to yield.
In my defense, people say I’m very virtuous (nauseatingly, I think), very beautiful (a very unfeminine nose, though), and a definite preference for parentheses in prose. Do you think you can live with that?
I am yours, if you will have me (please say yes).
Rukmini
She scans the page in the journal, a hastily-hand sewn collection of palm leaves, hid with the shoeboxes, and slashes out the barely-dried ink, eyebrows drawn together in annoyed, irritated frustration, because this is not the way to say it, and it is not the way to ask it of him, because well-brought up, sensible princesses do not courier monologues to rakish princes asking them to abduct them. The perfect version has not yet come, and the page will not be ripped out yet, so she sighs and resolves to try again tomorrow (every day).
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