The Violinist

The Violinist-Vision

3.Vision

The fire blazed and stirred the air in front of their faces. Suri sat awkwardly on a cushion of dry leaves. His eyes darted from the fire to the paper in Bora's hand. Bora was completely immersed in what he was doing. The evening was chilly, not unusual, though.

"Okay," Bora said almost tentative in his enunciation, "I don't get why I have to write this for you. Don't you think it would be, I don't know, more authentic if you wrote this yourself?"

"Because my handwriting is as good as a beaver's on a dry wall," Suri, replied a little excited, "Plus, I'm okay at dictating but writing would put me to sleep."

"Do you know this is dangerous? What we are doing is trespassing, and trespassing at the governor's residence. If we get caught we are in serious trouble. And I've heard she even has a boyfriend already. I think this is an epic waste."

Suri intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on his hands, looking at Bora with a wry smile and undemonstratively.

"Are you going to answer that?" Bora spoke in an intimidating voice, cocking his head to provoke a greater sense of agitation.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Suri said lifting his head steadily on his shoulders. "I thought that was rhetorical. I didn't really find a question."

Bora gasped, exasperatedly and with a certain infliction and then let his breath loose, heavily. The smoke from his mouth glowed bleakly in the emanating orange light. "You just don't get it do you? I mean she might not even care. She might not want to talk to you. She might tell her dad and..."

Bora threw his hands into the air with frustration and let them drop hard on his thighs.

"So would you read out what we wrote one last time before we leave?" Suri asked with no imminent impatience or annoyance. Bora sighed like he often did when he was around Suri. "Yeah, let's."

Bora unfolded the paper for the sixth time. He had had a tumultuous time penning down each word that Suri had dictated less than eloquently. But he seemed proud of his work, neatly written and phrased.

"Dear Survya,

We have never met, never talked, and never known of each other's existence. Today, that changed for me; I know now that you exist, and it seems all else has stopped existing for me. I know you don't know me, but for now there is no reason in introduction, call me your secret admirer, even if it is as cliché as it sounds. You may choose to throw this tattered piece of paper as soon as it comes in your hands, but know that you will also be throwing the hope with which I write this letter-the hope of receiving a reply. If you wish to keep that hope alive, respond to me, please. I seem to lose my words at this point, but hope that you see my words are true and sincere. If you reply, send me a letter-hide it in the first turn on the precincts of your house when you walk out from the front gate and turn left.

I don't know why I'm doing this, but it seems to be how the world was meant to be. Please reply. I will wait for your reply every waking moment.

Your secret admirer."

"Are you sure that's not too artificial, too synthetic?" Bora said suddenly a little conscious about his work.

"No."Suri spoke in immaculate impassiveness, something he had mastered over the years with impeccability.

"What if she doesn't like it?"

"We'll take that chance."

"What if she gets confused about where she's supposed to put the letter?"

"She won't, it's her own house."

"What happens if she thinks it's a prank?" Bora was getting nervous now, and Suri was enjoying it thoroughly.