Sanyukta-
Sometimes, when you think about it, life's really ironic. Funny because, well, one day you are obliviously going through your auto mobile engines and then losing against Parth at fighting, and the next you're . . . well all of a sudden you're life takes on this whole new perspective about-- things.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that Randhir Singh Shekhwat has, just now, gone insane. He has crumbled from the pressure of saving-the-team and ridding it of our egotistical dean, when in fact he's just musing and being broody.
I have to be, you know. The whole 'Hero' thing.
Anyway, I'm assuming that you're wondering at this point why the hell I'm writing this stupid letter. And I'll tell you, eventually. I guess one of the main reasons would be Jiggy and Parth are hovering behind me, one brandishing a frighteningly sharp pen and the other yoyo's baseball bat. (And, in all honestly, I can't be sure which is more frightening.)
Since we're being completely and totally honest-- oh, did I forget to mention that? Well, we are. Just to let you know.-- I've re-written this letter about eighteen times. (And what a show of determination on the part of my two best mates! Still standing behind me, looking just as terrifying with their own respective weapons as they did in the beginning.) The first one was ridiculously sappy and when I re-read it, I made myself blush because it looked like I'd copied it right out of a soap-opera.
It started somewhere along the lines of, 'Dearest Sanyukta, I am writing in order to confess what I have held in my heart for so long...' etc., etc., etc. Parth tried to make me read it out loud, but it was trashed in the bin before any major damage to my pride could be done.
So I re-wrote it.
It read, basically, Sanyukta! Hey! How are you! Look, I have to tell you something!' I didn't manage to save that one from Yoyo , but he was silenced when Kaustuki told him she'd never talk to him again if he read it out loud.
. . . Which was a little awkward, now that I think about it. But I greatly appreciate the gesture.
Anyway. The third was just as horrible-- I sounded like a Sammer Mittal reincarnate. 'Well, well, well. The littlest Agarwal, eh? Imagine, the "famous" Randhir Singh Shekhwat writing something like this to the beautiful Lady.' And not only was I horrified by how utterly arrogant that sounded, but it was almost . . . insulting.
Also, in what I can only call the singular most horrifying moment of my life, I caught myself signing Mittal's name above the post script.
But the point is, all the letters were rubbish. And I couldn't find the right way to say what I've been trying to say this whole letter. And I know everyone is probably getting frustrated, because it's taking me ages to write this stupid bloody thing, but in the end I think they'll be pretty happy with the way this turns out.
So now you're getting irritated, right? Because I still haven't told you what this rubbish is about? And now you're confused as to how I know you so well, and getting a little suspicious and frightened as to why I am describing things exactly as they happen.
Now you're an endless bundle of confusion, suspicion, annoyance, nervousness, excitement and (if I'm right; which I hope I am), hope. By now, you're eyes are completely bugged out of your head and the only thing stopping you from murdering me is the fact that you really, really want to know what I'm trying to say.
You're even thinking about just skipping all this deadweight and getting to the good stuff. But don't. I really want you to read this before you read what I'm trying to say.
Sanyukta, I know you so well because I've been watching you. (Close your jaw.) I know almost everything about you, from your favourite colour (blue) to your best friend (kaustuki sherpa) to what sheets are on your bed. (Don't ask how I figured that one out. Let's just say that it involves Yoyo, a bet, and a very, very angry Kaustuki. Don't get freaked out, either. I swear I'm not stalking you.)
The point is, I know you almost as well as I know myself. (Which isn't that difficult, all said. I'm pretty complicated. Well, at least in my eyes. Half the time, I don't even know what I'm feeling.) And for the past few months, every time you come into the room I get this odd . . . butterfly-ish feeling in my stomach.
And the fact of the matter is, when Parth (Parth! Do you hear me? I was jealous of PARTH KASHYAP.) came up to you and gave you that big hug and you kissed his cheek, it took (quite literally) Jiggy, Sahil, and Yoyo to keep me from running over to where the two of you were, shoving Kashyap, Killing him, before turning to you and giving you a very thorough, very jignesh-ish explanation as to why you must never speak to him ever again.
And then, in a flash of epiphany and horrible embarrassment, I realized I was acting exactly like Jiggy had when Kaustuki went to Yoyo. And that, even if I had come to this realization, it wouldn't be okay for me to just go and assault all of your guy-friends. Because that would be rude. And slightly homicidal.
So. I did some serious thinking over the summer. Why did I get so mad when I saw you and Parth? Why did I get so upset when I thought that the two of you were an item?
So I did the only thing I could possibly think to do.
Denial, denial, denial. It's not just a river in Egypt, you know.
So as the summer progressed, and I found myself being genuinely apologetic for what I may or may not have said to Parth, I forced myself to look in the mirror and say, "I am jiggy." And for almost two weeks, I did that. I just looked at myself and said "I am jiggy" until it was so ingrained into my head that I was acting like the idiot I call a best mate that when my dad came to check on me and said, "Wotcher, Randhir!" I replied, "I am jiggy."
I think he was a bit afraid for my sanity, after that, but I managed to assuage his fears by laughing and shaking my head, assuring her that I was just taking the mickey.
So anyway.
At the end of this very lengthy, very pointless letter, I am finally going to tell you what jiggy and Parth want me to. And although it may not be in plain English, like you'd probably find best, I hope you'll be able to accept that it's the best I can do.
Sanyukta, I, uhm, care. About you. A lot.. And not in a strictly platonic way. Not in a platonic way at all, in fact. So you know what your Mum and Dad are always saying, just before bed?
Okay, wait, ew, that's not what I meant.
Or . . . or . . . how about this: you know what Vidushi is always saying about clothing she like? You know, "Oh, that would look fabulous, I love that on you!"?
Well, it's like that. Sort of.
I know what you're thinking. 'For pity's sake, Randhir, just SAY it!' But I can't, really. I can't just . . . write something like that down. It's too big. It's too huge. And I probably can't say it to your face, either, because it's so big and so huge. And I'll just lose my nerve. Because I've never said it before.
Is it casual? Is it calm? Is it just random, or does a guy plan for it for weeks? Does it just slip out? What?
But . . . I think . . . the point is, I fancy you. But more than that, you know? I mean, I fancy you a lot. A lot, a lot. Which translates into something else that I just can't bring myself to write down.
I hope you understand ...
Yours, Randhir
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