To a woman, from another

 Dearest Vaishali,

Chanced upon your story yesterday. Thanks to gifted craftspeople like M.T.Vasudevan Nair and Bharatan, you have a cinematic rendition, a mention on the infinite silver screen of Mollywood (Also, thankyou O.N.V, for the Beautiful lyrics).

Vaishali, I am nobody to validate or write off your tragedy.... 

But, please consider this, aren't we all puppets in someone else's hands? And while I am cent percent sure that Your Puppeteer, the crooked Raja purohitan, was not acting with detachment, and that he had a purely personal interest in disposing you off, I cannot help but wish that you continue to flow... I can guess from the closing scenes that it was what the storyteller also intended, cutting us off with the poetic shot of the flowing river.

Your purpose was high, your means were questionably legitimate too (because all is fair in Love and War, and you warred against the mighty and petty Gods). But, you failed where you forgot to dissociate passion from your purpose. 

But, dearest, I cannot fault you. Because you are only human - That woman all the patronisers point at - the Gullible,the Protected, the Docile, the Virtuous. Destined to Endure. The Common Woman.

But oh, they couldn't be more wrong. To me, you symbolise Realisation - The danger in trusting the victorious face of your lover, at invoking the rain gods, the face that remained victorious and smiling even when your dream was dashed, the helpless face of your father, allowing himself to be directed by strings of the Puppeteer, the relieved face of the Purohitan, at having successfully averted disgrace, both personal and public.

And Resilience. Because the power of the Common is often underestimated. You are like a River - flowing passionately, when treated passionately, thinning desperately, when mistreated. Thinning, but flowing, eternally flowing, eternally present.

Athin porul, ninakkethum ariyillallo, goes your beautiful song, but never did I imagine it was cruel irony, indicator of the impending future ....

For, what are we but puppets.