Dear Miss Bhutto,
or may I call you Fatima, Fati? Perhaps, rather Miss Bhutti, Miss Booty? I apologize for my indiscretion, but I have the feeling we have been knowing each other for quite a long time now. Jealous tongues hiss that a relationship with an image on the screen is utterly one-sided and ought not to be considered as real human interaction. But what do they know?
Do you believe in love at the first sight? No? Neither do I, but I do believe in love at the first word. Love at the first stanza. Like a rhyme finding its true twin in the middle of a dead heap, a dead heap of chaotic, meaningless polysyllables. Like reading Tagores “The first Kiss” for the first time, and falling in love with it at the very first word.
I fell in love with your words. Words of blood and sword in the battle for my heart. I fell in love with your mellifluous voice which delivered them as if it was a beauteous Rusari veiling an even more pulchritudinous face, because too much beauty could unbalance the universal equilibrium. Every word is a secret, the same way every expression of a face is a secret yearning to be unveiled – longing to tell its story. These words of yours are children craving for love, children of a fecund mind. And I am willing to be their father.
Leaving this pseudo-poetic romanticism aside, yes, I do admit, you are quite good looking, as well, with your untamed dark-brown hair and these dark eyes – dark like a universe full of secrets. I lost myself in them like an astronaut searching for the unknown. I heard about your alleged liaison with this actor – what is his name again? – George Clooney. I have to admit, he is a charming and quite handsome fellow, and he probably attracts women like street lamps attract moths. But do not forget: moths get burned to death for their reckless and passionately imbecile attempt to find the closer light, this tempting flicker of perpetual illumination. A woman of your provenance should not indulge in an unpremeditated fling with a womaniser who is well known for his penchant for promiscuity. We might be all the same as soon as we lie down, but considering his hight, you might rethink your affections for this man. Do you really want to witness the slow fading of his hair, the barren desert on his head, from your gazebo up there? In addition, he seems to be quite a pervert. Have you seen the penis chair he invented in this film Burn After Reading?
Not only that I am younger and taller them him; since I am of Indian origin, I have the values which a woman of your descent needs. Values bequeathed in our countries for centuries. Values like occasional monogamy and a patriarchal clear-sightedness when it comes to domestic hierarchies. But most important: do you know what you could achieve with your love for me? Do you know how much peace you could seed? How many lives you could save? More than you could even save with a gazillion words. Consider how our love could bridge the insurmountable chasm between your country and mine. How our passion could be the glowing coal for the train of peace between Pakistan and India. We would not need sanctimonious cricket games to restore what has been taken from us without our concession. If one kiss could save one life, how often would you kiss me? Would you sacrifice your love for me in order to save an entire nation? Would you commit this martyrdom of love?
I am well aware that you do not have any interests in politics. Who could blame you, after all the blood your family has shed. But Fati, we can be utterly apolitical. We can move to the Indian-Pakistani frontier in Kashmir, and on the border line we would build a little house just for the two of us. One half, your half, of the hut would reach into the Pakistani side and the other half, my half, would be on Indian soil – totally apolitical. Our bed would be standing right in the middle of the border, separated into two parts by a fence of pillows. But when every border patrol sleeps and the dark night throws its black dress over the verdant meadows of Kashmir, than, like a special force, I would sneak over to your side, climbing over the barrier of pillows, with no political interest at all, only to reunite what has been cut in two over sixty years ago. Finally, I would whisper my words of blood and sword to you and we would fight through the night, shooting kisses with a camouflager of sex-appeal. Until we will wake up next to each other, merely separated by a meaningless line on the map and a few wrinkled pillows.
Let me know what you think about my idea. You know where to find me: behind the glass, the glass of the TV Screen.
With Love and the wish that George does not find out about us.