16th February 2024

Dear Palak,

I wrote a poem about you and me:

She sits there on the tiny bed,
Her back against the wall,
Her little hands and feet fidgeting.
I don’t know if it’s because of nervousness or impatience,
But she calculates the time I need to go to the airport
And says, “You can leave by 8.”
That’s two and half hours from now…

And she talks about significant and Insignificant memories,
Of extinguished pasts and violated presents,
About life and love and lies.

I sit in her house on a Sunday afternoon,
On the sofa, perpendicular to the tiny bed she is sitting on,
We are seeing each other after almost two decades,
I look at her,
And everything around her
And I realise
I love her walls,
I love that table in the middle of the room,
I love the cushions on her sofa,
I love her piano, the one she plays with her tiny fingers,
I love the idea of her having a dog,
A desire she expressed just a little while ago.

Earlier, I gave her the letters,
Letters I had written to her in the past two decades,
Letters that I never dared to post.
Now I imagine her reading these letters to me,
Years later, sitting on the same tiny bed,
Only this time I am sitting next to her, holding her hands.

And I realise I love that she is single,
And I also realise that I would love her husband and children,
If she ever decides to have a family.

After all, one afternoon like this beats death.

With love, hugs and other things,
P