To a Heartbroken, Runaway, Lost Woman: Letters to My Younger Self

I’ve often wondered, in moments of great contentment – you know, the ones when you’re staring blankly at the walls of your toilet and pushing clumps of hair into a scrunchy – how you know you’ve gotten any older.

I recently blew out 27 years’ worth of candles on top of a suspicious-looking custard cream concoction picked up at a gali in Lajpat Nagar– and thought, mid-cringe, of my ‘younger’ (read: pre-27-year-old) self. Was I happier? Stronger? More fulfilled? Did I lose more, or less, hair? Had I finally learnt how to keep red lipstick on through the day? And how often did I manage to spend an entire Sunday by myself, without calling a not-too-close acquaintance, thereby succumbing to abject social desperation?

But then I remembered my first solo trip – the one I took right after a bit of a bruised-heart situation.

I remembered the first phone conversation with my parents as I settled into an unfamiliar dorm room as they took their seats on a train that was taking them back home – leaving me behind.

I remembered the girl whose worth was measured consistently by the colour of her skin, the circumference of her waist, the breadth of her spectacles and the boy who refused to be a party to any/all of that.

To many versions of that girl, I have these postcards to send: