When you receive this letter, Ross will be gone. I have taken his once innocent hand and lead him dutifully along the road to redemption. I will try my hardest to detail the circumstances that have come to be, but forgive me if my words come across as being cold or my emotions display an indifference towards the tragedies of yours. This, regrettably, is just the way things are.
The time that Ross spent with you was certainly beneficial to his development, not only as a scholar of contemporary arts, but as a human being also. You displayed an earnest dedication towards his growth, and that growth manifested itself in the gems of literary wonder skillfully crafted in his “creation station”, and in his charitable offerings of bruised bananas to those less fortunate than himself. You opened his heart to the simple joys found amongst the flotsam at the bottom of an economical bottle rum and Pepsi. You taught him that drugs shared by Japanese tourists, while not always ripe for trust, taste sweeter in the lungs than the crisp morning air soaked in Himalayan dew. Your effortless embodiment of British culture has helped to cure any residual home sickness and given him a restored faith in his country’s influence on the world. But many aspects of your being made him jaded, and left him wondering if his fellow countrymen should have stayed a little longer.
Chaos, trauma, misery, pain, suffering, uncontrollable male lust, chewing tobacco, the injustice of rickshaw wallahs, forty-nine Indian idle workers huddling around a problem with a look of bewilderment on their wobbling faces, dogs with breasts, outdoor urine troughs, one-armed one-eyed hash salesmen, the stabbing of moped horns sharpened with impatience, and 1970s US Cop drama moustaches. Calcutta, these are your dominant attributes, and they are repulsive. You make loving you an impossible task and you seem to care little for outsider’s opinions of you and your frequently untrustworthy inhabitants. Your optimistically billed “hotels” have all of the elegance of a junkie’s kitchen sink. Your sour stench makes one want to remove their sinus glands with a sharpened HB pencil. Your male methods of courting the opposite sex make them and their rusty teeth the world’s finest methods of contraception.
Ross bears the scars of his time in Calcutta in his eyes, his withered soul and on the walls of his swollen rectum. You brought him in an innocent, carbonated young man with more spunk than a prostitute’s stomach, and spat him out a gooey husk, writhing and floundering in a puddle of his own chunky pakora vomit and diluted feces.
I am taking him under my wing and clutching him tightly to my breast. The soft, consuming cushion of my teat will nurse his broken soul back into the shape it was before you raped it with your throbbing member of grime. He will stay with me and you shall never be allowed to speak his name again, let alone undress his morals with your eyes.
Calcutta, you can never know how you spoiled such a delicate flower so close to its bloom. But I hope that my words will linger in your mind and overtime grow to an unbearable level. I pray that one day the knowledge that you murdered his ambition and violated its corpse will be the foot that kicks away the stool from beneath you, leaving you to dangle limply from a noose of your own weaving.
Do not respond to this letter.
Dr. Sanjit Ray Singh
Chief Psychoanalysis Officer
New Delhi Asylum for the Clinically Insane