Dear Meera,

When I was fifteen, the boys in my area would hang out around a nearby tea shop. Some would sit there the whole day, drinking gallons and gallons of tea. Being shy and a recluse, I was desperate to make friends, to know people, and to be part of something. So I went there one day and hung around for nearly an hour. Summoning the courage to utter words, drinking a few cups in the process. When I was preparing to leave, after failing miserably in my attempt to socialize, I suddenly sensed excitement among others. All the boys were looking in the same direction, towards the roof of an apartment building. After a few confusing seconds, I realized that all the boys used to gather there not to socialize but to get a glimpse of girls who used to come up to the roof in the evening.

I know I am an idiot as you often tell me. Fifteen years old and not knowing about teenage romantic desperation. That’s how I used to be back then. But all that changed that day, because that what the day I saw you for the first time. After all the girls left and naturally all the boys too. I was still there, drowning in my loneliness. Until I saw you on the same rooftop. You were wearing blue that day. The color of your dress mixed perfectly with the blueness of the sky. You looked divine, someone sent from above. Blue became my favorite color from that day. I appreciated everything that had blue in it because it reminded me of you. Though that changed next week when I saw you in a yellow dress. That day you made me love sunflowers and marigolds and sunlight. Since then my favorite color is whatever I see you in.

Of 22 years of my existence, the seven years since I saw you have been the most fortunate. But my favorite is the day when we became friends. The day when I fell from my bike right in front of you. And when you lend your hands to pick me up. To be honest, I was trying to impress you by riding as fast as I could. Knowing you now, that would have never worked. Thanks to that stone that tripped me. And thanks to whoever left it in the middle of the road. I am sorry that your handkerchief was stained with my blood. When you asked me if I was hurt while wiping the blood off my lips, I wanted to tell you that I was in ecstasy. A broken jaw had never felt so good.

You became the first person who tried to know me, who saw something of value inside me, something that even my parents couldn’t. Or maybe you didn’t care if I was of any value. You made me a friend and accepted me as I was — lame, recluse, and idiotic.

You were what my parents would consider — a bad influence. You made me bunk school for the first time to watch a movie. You made me ride a Ferris wheel and bathe in ice-cold water. I couldn’t understand your enthusiasm for movies and music and rain and clouds and dogs, even insects and busy traffic…at first. But I realized that you are the kind of person that does not like to dislike.

The heavens blessed me when I got to share the same college with you. Those three years that should have been a prolonged nightmare for someone like me became a dream. All because of your presence in the same building. The best part of those college days was the ten minutes that I got to spend with you during our walk from the lecture hall to the chemistry lab. I hated that chemistry lab for separating us.

I could not understand why you encouraged me towards poetry. I was horrible at communication. I am sorry I fought with you for that poetry competition. But you enrolled me knowing that I could not speak on stage in front of an audience. My stupid brain thought that you wanted to make fun of me with your new friends. I was so wrong. You wanted nothing but happiness for me.

That evening of poetry competition was magical. I thought I would die on stage. I almost had, if you weren’t there on the fifth row cheering amid all the “boos…you suck…and get off the stage”. I won that night but you celebrated as if you did. Perhaps, it was indeed your victory. You created an artist.

I wanted to confess my love sooner. I tried many times, but my words betrayed me. Ironic, isn’t it? A poet can’t find words to express his love. The closest I came to confessing was the night when you told me about your to-do “bucket list”. It made me happy that you had so many new desires and so many ambitions. Your face was lit up like a morning sky. Before you told me, I had already guessed that you got a job. You were so happy, but trust me I was happier. I wanted you to be free from the tyranny of your family ever since the first time I saw you get hit by your uncle. I am sorry I never told you. But I know. I have known about your family situation for the last six years. I know that you conceal your tears. I know that you were raised by your uncle and aunt after the death of your father and your mother was helpless in front of them. Though I couldn’t tell you what I wanted to do that night, I slept in tranquility because I heard what I wanted to, do for five long years.

I want you to know that this is one of the many versions of a love letter I have written over the years. I wish I wouldn’t have to read it over the bank of Ganges where your ashes were immersed. I am sorry I did not attend your cremation. It was too hard to see you burn. I wish I could have told you earlier, maybe that would have stopped you from taking that bus. I don’t care if you rejected me. I just want you in this world, breathing the same air. I want your heart to beat more than anything in this world right now.

Anyway, don’t worry too much about me, I am going to be busy. I have a new dream, to do everything you wanted to do. I have already enrolled in belly dance classes. It is so uncomfortable, I had no idea the human body could move that way. Girls make fun of me during the entire duration of our class. But I still finish it because I know you are looking at me from above, laughing and giggling. See, even after leaving this world you are making me do outlandish things just like when we were teenagers.

I am going to live my life, just like you wanted to live yours. To the fullest. I promise.

It is written in the Vedas that fire is the messenger between the people and God. I am going to burn this letter. I hope the God of Fire would deliver it to you.

I love you, Meera.

Your Friend. In this life and beyond.

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