Letters to a Dead Friend, Week 1

Dear Karan,

You saved the journals! I'm so glad. It always bothered me when you said you had stopped writing them, that you'd switched to the Cloud. A friend of yours said you were looking for a paper shredder; I'm glad you spared your words.

Thanks for sticking around Delhi for a bit. Last night I could feel you in the breeze cutting the hazy heat on my terrace, and in Rebel's sleepy embrace as I cried into his fur. Favorite human and favorite K9, you said. I'm learning that you loved a lot of people, which is fine because it never cut into my dividend. 

I love you. There, I've said it. Have been wanting to for awhile. 

--

Dear Karan,

I spoke to your brother today. He said he's getting a dog for your parents. That's so great. I wonder who will feed the nine dogs you fed every day - four at the factory and five on the lane. Streeties, you called them. My dog, meanwhile, still won't really walk with me. I don't know if I'm anxious and he's absorbing it, or the anxiety is all his own. I've never thought as much about dog psychology as I have these last two years. And I can always kinda blame you for him because you were so excited when I sent the pictures of his arrival to my apartment.

Remember when we took him to that beautiful park in my neighborhood where dogs aren't allowed, and played fetch with an empty beer can? We really walked these streets, did we not? Often after midnight and through thick smog. I remember one cold night when the AQI was insane. You suggested a walk. I said, well, it's really polluted but....yolo? You laughed and off we went. You lent me your wool coat. Chivalry may now truly be dead.

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Dear Karan,

I thought your service was very melancholy but beautiful. The place was packed! When I saw all those men in golf shirts inching forward cross-legged to make room for more, it reminded me of what a photographer recently shared with me, of India being a bucket of crabs that keep pulling each other down as they try to climb to the top.

After the service we went to Clocktower, which N. said was your favorite bar. I could see why, between the craft beer and the Guns N Roses. N., D. and I sat in your favorite booth in the corner, discussing you like sister wives. Did you know that we would compare notes?

PS. "Karanaa kooch rehan thir nahee" is a lovely sentiment and also I noticed that Hindi and Punjabi are quire similar. You could easily explain, I'm sure.

--

What you've done is profoundly awful. Know that.

--

Hello, my dear,

Thought of you tonight from the Steiner Auditorium, where we went to see Fellini's "8 1/2". You laughed at all the right places. We then drank macchiato at the formerly American diner across the atrium and you listened to me extol the virtues of Rome and Venice. In your goodbye, you thanked me for being a patient listener, but you have always been, too. Even now.

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I won't write much, Karan, because I'm sick and it's maybe because of you. Still, I can't help remember when you came over for dinner and a movie, and I suddenly developed a fever. You took my temperature, then called your aunt who is a doctor, describing my symptoms, ran out for the drugs she recommended and put me to bed. Wish you were here to do that now. I need some kind authority in my life.

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Karan,

I saw you tonight under my desk. I was in triangle pose and you were fixing a slipped rod. Back in November, after my breakup, you offered to fix the adjustable height desk you'd assembled for me the summer before, after instructing me which model to buy and also which monitor and mouse. Within a day you were there, under my desk, not because you had any designs on me but simply because you wanted to make me feel better.

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KK,

I have "mysterious blue" ink all over my hand because I don't know how to operate your Faber Castell fountain pen. It's probably in the eight pages of notes on fountain pens in India that you left me, but I would still rather just call you for help.

Rebel is sleeping in the guest room with my mom. Maybe he knows I have Covid, or maybe he likes that she doesn't stay up late writing or doom-scrolling.

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Karan,

I dreamed of you last night for the first time. I was living in a very Indian-style hostel with peeling paint and large archways that reeked of hash and bidi smoke. I don't know why you were there but it didn't feel odd at all to see you.

--

Dear Karan,

I'm feeling like a broken kaleidoscope, and worry that I attract broken men. I know I like to fix things. You do, too. You said you couldn't fix it, that was why. It's nice to feel your warmth in the midnight wind on my terrace.