Letters to a Dead Friend, Week 3

Dear K,

This may be the last letter for a while. Not because I will have stopped thinking about you -- I won't, not even for a second -- but because I need to find a way to move forward, and love the present, whatever is left of it, the promise that remains.

As I sat in the hamam tonight (yes, I went twice, book-ending my Turkey trip) I thought of my body as a conquered place still paying reparations for all the fun it once had.

I wonder how you received my biography, why you couldn't relate to any part of it as your own. Anyway, you've changed me for the better, and I think I'll find years from now, it was worth the scar.

--

Dear Karan, 

When I read over words you wrote two years ago, and listen to Beach House, it is an exquisite pain, so piercing that it is difficult to breathe. I am always lured to this place and tempted to stay, to feel the pain reverberate within my broken body and shattered heart. Because when I feel the loss this deeply, I can almost conjure you.

Why do I hurt myself like this? Maybe to remind myself of your exquisite love that asked for nothing, only gave until it was completely spent.

--

Dear Karan,

It is a sultry night, the kind that follows a heavy rain, and the streets smell of night jasmine. In other words, it is a romantic atmosphere, Rebel's barking notwithstanding. I keep going over in my mind nights like this spent with you, contemplating taking your hand. I don't know what I thought would happen. I don't know what kept me from trying. Maybe the ineffable sheen of death was already there.

I'm sure that you knew that I loved you, if not the curiosity imbued in that love. There is so much about you that I will never know, including exactly how you felt about me.

My gym trainer, Mr. Olympia, wasn't at all surprised when I told him what you had done, when the woman you loved married someone else. "An Indian story," he said. 

It is so easy to romanticize the dead, so I won't. I will simply say that I miss you and wish beyond anything that you would come back to life.

Ps. Reby says "ruff."

--

Dear Karan,

Walked in Lodhi with V. this evening. Seems like every Indian friend I've told about you knows someone who did the same, or tried to. R. thinks I should write about it, that it would be the most important thing I did here, but I am not sure if I can or should. I don't think you would be opposed -- you liked my piece on L.K. I imagine you would advise me to do what feels right, and I am not sure it is right to mine my grief.

All writers know that the best of us write what we know -- the drama that comprises our own lives. But if I release these words, what will I have left?

--

KK,

I don't feel like writing. I haven't been able to work much at all this week, and it's tempting to blame you. I met A., who said he considers it very courageous what you did. He said he attempted it himself once or twice. He said Indians don't think of anything as the ultimate evil. 

Then K., who is almost out of India, told me that violence is just the cultural code specific to nations in extremis. 

Last thing to share -- I told J. I couldn't banter with him. It makes me too sad to think about what could have been but wasn't. I haven't taken your advice to block him -- I'm afraid of extremes right now.

--

Karan,

It is two years of no drinking today. "No cheat days even?" you asked when I began this attempt. Nope, not a one. I know you think it's cool.

I go to see your family tomorrow. I know I am going to cry, but I am so grateful that they want to meet me. My mom loved meeting you.

--

Karan dear,

I met your parents -- maybe you heard. They are lovely people who are hurting so badly. Your brother, too, is so soft-spoken and kind. I have to tell you, I don't think I helped them at all. I was prepared to tell funny, heart-warming stories about you, and I did, but only in between sobs. What can I say? You're just that great, and I am still shocked that you thought death was preferable to all that exists for you here.