An Open Letter to Mr. Claus

Dear Santa,

I don’t usually write to you, but then I just realized, that I have been trying to have quite a few conversations with Karma in my head, and she being the archetypal bitch doesn’t ever bother responding, so I thought maybe I could reroute my conversation through you.

Followed?

Well here’s the deal.

You know how they keep saying that whatever you do, it will one day come back to you in some form or the other, with interest even? Well, my question is, who is the authority to measure whether what is coming back to me is in fact equal, and if the interest calculation is accurate, and if in fact Ms. Karma isn’t taking out some personal vendetta and just adding a few more notches here and there for fun, you know? What are the controls around this particular process? A maker-checker system in place perhaps? Because in general in my life, girls have found it tougher to get along with me. But that’s changing. So I just wanted to let Ms. Karma know that, you know, maybe we can be friends now.

There have been times in my life that I haven’t been the nicest person on the planet. Or the second nicest. Or the third nicest. I can go on, but you get the gist, no? There may have been reasons, or not. I may have hurt a lot of people, I may have hurt myself, I may have never realized, or I may have realized just how much and suffered as well. I am in no way making excuses. I apologise. Damage done = ‘x’ (let’s say)

But then let’s recap to the last two years of my life, shall we?

I have been lonely. I have been depressed. I have wasted eight months against my will. I have gained weight. After giving me the prettiest skin for all my life, I have pimples, now. I never get autos. My merus never turn up. I lived with cockroaches. My next door neighbor is a drummer who likes to practice quite a few hours in a day. I work for the one person I really have no respect for. I spend more than four hours of my day cramped in trains and buses while I travel across the world to reach a client office where I sit alone all day. I have been made to repeatedly realize how insignificant I really am in the scheme of things. I now seem to be nearing the randomest eating disorder on the planet. My stomach reacts to my brain. I now know I am not perfection personified. Not even close. I have shed enough tears to unknowingly contribute to scientist’s concerns of rising sea levels. 

I am scared, Ms. Karma, and it’s not a nice way to be.

The past year has been beautiful in so many ways. I have been my happiest during it. I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with. My hair turned nice and wavy when I woke up one day, and stayed that way. I love my new apartment. I’ve written more in a year than I have in my life. I’ve written happy stuff. I actually believed in happiness and love and Captain. And I’m changing. I’m learning. But then, at all times, I know that there are these days, when you wake up all grumpy and I become your CSR project of the week. You give back with all your wrath. And while I know I must get my due, but could you perhaps once go back and check your excel sheet, run a few pivots, some summation formulae and just check, just once? Are we by any chance past ‘x’?

If no, kindly provide me your PMS-ing dates. I shall be prepared with my shield and armour. Or at least be prepared to be broken. If one can ever really be prepared for that.

I have learnt a lot from you, and I know why you are important in the scheme of things. But perhaps, one day, I would like to know that I have paid my dues. And neither me, nor people who love me, need ever suffer again, unless warranted afresh. I’d like to live peacefully. Without a karma-named axe over my head, if possible. So could you maybe put a little reminder on that date in your BB? Just let me know, please?

So all I really want for this Christmas, Santa, is your help in passing on this plea to Ms. Karma. I heard she’s a bitch. But hey, I changed. And continue to do so each day. Maybe there’s hope for her yet.

Love,

The nicer, more loveable, and learning to be more sensible,

Shreya