Kartiki Bhatnagar (17)
Delhi Public School, Rohini
Today, I am not going to write about one of my melancholy days, my insecurities or how I fought with Ma. Today I may ramble on, but it is not going to be something which makes you yawn. Today I am going to write to you, about you and for you.
I have not been a good writer really. Yes, I get the occasional instant gratification when I post my blog (it has not been doing well lately. Oh god, I shifted to myself again.)
I first met you six years ago when Dad gifted you to me on our way to Kerala. He wanted me to document what we did every day. Somehow a few weeks later you transformed from a travel log to a personal secret keeper. Well, whatever kid-like secrets I had then.
I fondly wrote “KEEP AWAY! SECRET DIARY… DON’T TOUCH!” like that was going to help. You were mine.
After all these years, I am on the third edition now.
But I have been a first class betrayer nowadays and today I owe you an apology.
I’m sorry to have left you in the deepest chasms of my cupboard which I never open.
I’m sorry for the dust that covers you.
I’m sorry to have left that entry mid-way where I was telling you about ‘him’.
I’m sorry for not writing to you for so long that now my entries are mostly me saying “Something really excited happened, but I don’t have time ttyl bye!”
I’m sorry for not completing you.
But see, I have my friends to tell stuff to and they also give me some response to what I say! Oh, don’t be hurt, but it is sadly true. You cannot give me any advice like they do. With everything so quick nowadays, I find it easier to type messages and Facebook statuses.
Maybe you, dear diary, would be my friend when I read you to help me understand my children. Maybe one day I will open you and laugh at myself for all the useless things I said. How I grew up from Disney Channel to Star World. But then tumbled back again into watching Power Rangers with my children and I would have my friend, you, to guide me, show me the way. I fantasize myself as the woman in The Notebook where I would be old, frail and may not remember things, but instead of my husband, it would be me who wrote you. My entire life story would be read out by my grandchildren as I lie on my deathbed.
I would have my legacy.
So today, I take you out and scribble everything I haven’t scribbled for the past 3 weeks. Today I complete you, like you complete me.
Your one and only friend