|Original photograph by Tristan Kube|
From Tristan Kube:
The ink that helped you write that letter, blotted out my sky forever.
Am I just a semblance of myself now, as much a lover as I'm a misanthrope?
It’s been twelve years and counting and I still write you these letters that are fated never to leave the clandestine confines of a tin-box.
From Priyanthie de Silva:
My daughter promised to write , when she left home. I did not hear from her, until a month later when I watched the TV program of an attack on a group of Peace Corp workers in Angola. There were no survivors. My daughter did not even send a letter, to understand the reason why.
With her legs dangling on the low wall by her gate, six year old Kree sat waiting anxiously for the postman to arrive. He would come bearing her first letter from her first pen pal. The tinkle of his bell sounded as he rounded the corner. Eyes shining with anticipation, she jumped off the wall.
A ransom letter arrived.
It was a moonless night.
The clock struck 11.
The main switch was shut off.
Armed men surrounded the entire place.
The family members were lined-up outside.
Nothing left but the immovable possessions.
Silent cries left unheard.
Three decades is too long for justice!
It was a week later when the police gave her the letter that had been clutched in his hand, when the car had hit him. And along with it, the police officer would explain, hidden deep in his pocket - was a beautiful diamond ring, with their names engraved on the inside.
I dolled myself up for him.i had to look like the same girl he fell in love with and wanted to marry. I read his very first letter over and over again. He promised he'll always be mine to have and to hold. I was alone now as he lay in a casket.
She was washing out the curry-stained frying pan, humming a recent Bollywood song, when the bell rang. She wiped her hands dry on her sari and opened the door.
Two men in military uniform stood at the doorstep, their expressions grave. As one of them held out an official-looking letter letter, the other one began to speak: “Mrs. Shankar, we are very sorry to inform you…”
“to the letter you will follow, you hear me?” he was screaming at the top of his lungs, how could she not hear. What crime did she commit, she was young, naďve maybe, but she had every right to chose her man, but to his wrongly place pride, it would hinder everything, spell only The End.
She couldn’t get herself to open it. Maybe it was best not to know. Deep inside she knew he was never hers to keep. Forty years later at her death-bed, her nephew found a paper clutched in her hands - her face in a gentle smile. It read “marry me Lizzie. It’s always been you.”
At first, the symbols were meaningless squiggles to her, fragments of a secret code. The children giggled – a grown woman who couldn’t read! She wanted to run away, but this was too important.
When she finally cracked it, A to Z, it was like being born again. Finally, she could read her son’s newspaper articles.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
The bearer, Amigobot, Version 2.0, has been my buddy-bot since 01.02.2122. He has a proven track record and healed my depression during numerous occasions.
I have no hesitation in recommending him as the best buddy robot.