The Letter

“Let me start by saying Thank You for making me look for you as friend.”

I smiled reading these lines. And couldn’t help but wonder if I really played any role here.

I recently received a letter from someone who had been reading my blogs, now consistently for some time. We briefly interacted over chats and calls, intermittently over a 3-year period. I was never a frequent writer, and neither was he a prompt reader. But somehow, we would catch up somewhere in between. Primarily exchanging notes over the random thoughts shared in those writings. Sometimes we agreed, at times we debated, and some days we amicably ended the conversation each respecting other’s opinion.  

It all started with some casual remarks and then one day a conversation struck. I always despised self-praise. And for one of my write-ups he commented, ‘this is surely a good attempt at blowing your own trumpet.’ Needless to say, I wasn’t going to take this silently, and strongly voiced my objection. It did put him on a defensive, and he replied back, ‘Its okay to play your own trumpet, it plays loud and clear.’ To which my response was, ‘Loud is noise. Trumpets sound more musical when someone else plays it for you.’ And rest as they say is history.

Our conversations, irrespective of the medium, would usually last more than an hour. We would talk about the recent piece of writing, the triggering thought, a few hidden anecdotes and of course the key underlying message. During these discussions, I would do most of the talking. He would only interject occasionally, with a question or comment, often starting the sentence with ‘my friend’. Where I would take a few paragraphs to elaborate on some point, he would simply summarize it in a single phrase or sentence. A sentence starting with ‘my friend’.

If I can honestly admit, he did inspire a few stories or write-ups. His questions prompted me to dig into old albums, go through old scribbling and take walks in the memory lanes. And more often than not a new idea, a new thought and a new story would start taking shape. They say artists – of any art form – thrive on audience feedback. It was no different with me. He was generous and honest in his compliments and also in his criticism. Over time I started referring to him as my sounding board, recipient of my thinking-out-loud ideas. Someone who would patiently hear my convoluted thoughts, would not react to my occasional absurd comments and would ignore the aberrations in my views or opinions. And whenever he inspired a new piece of writing, I would tease him as my story-board.

Our association, though sporadic had a lasting impact on me. At times I felt as though he played the role of a catalyst in my personal evolution. I cant deny I may have had some influence on him too. But it was challenging for me to elaborate on his part of the story. I was the writer and he was the reader. While he had all access to my expressions, for me he was a blank screen.

And today I have received a letter from him. An invitation letter to visit his home for his son’s naming ceremony. And this visit would mark formalization of a friendship so special.