The Last Letter
Srishti and I were best buddies, inseparable since childhood. I lost contact with her after becoming a cop. The last I heard, she opened the boutique she’d wanted, thriving in her own way. Her terminal cancer diagnosis came as a shock.
I couldn’t contact her for over four years, even in this messaging era. Over a coffee, I reflect on how it all happened inside my Worli apartment on this sunny evening.
At first, she was my solace in this lonely, male-dominated workplace. Then I’d made friends, grew spine. Solving crimes in the crime branch kept me busy. Our video calls slowly dwindled, reduced to texts. They too became infrequent. I would blame work, but they were only excuses. Often, I’d end our chats prematurely. Clearly, she was putting an effort into contacting me, which I couldn’t return.
Despite my regrets, my inaction is to blame. I couldn’t visit her; I cannot now, with the condition she is in. The guilt, the sorrow in my heart, is too much. I can’t bear to face her.
I’m a coward, asking mom to stay by her side. Is there an end to this misery? A few months in, Mom reports Srishti is doing well and is resilient. Unlike me!
2 more months pass. I haven’t opened the glass jar of letters from Srishti, the Christmas gift my mom got delivered to me. It lies on my bedside table, untouched.
One rainy evening in June, I brace myself to open them. I’ve run enough. No more running away , else it will be too late.
Outside the rain lashes. Srishti’s letters are filled with the things she wants to say, most of them asking after my well-being and my new job in the new city.
“Wonder if you have been well, dear. Haven’t heard from you in long.”
“New friends made, old friends gone, isn’t us. Do you think of me?”
“Even in silence, I know our bond prevails.”
More lashing of the rain. Inverter fails. I read by candlelight. One letter remains; the clock strikes 12. This one speaks of her illness.
“I’m strong enough to fight this. No hard feelings if you can’t come see me. Won’t you miss me when I’m gone?”
I read on, my tears staining the paper.
“I won’t want you to grieve for me. Even if you lost something you love, love will find you in another way.”
Isn’t this similar to what Kafka said? Srishti is more of a literature freak than I am.
“You will always find another loved one. I will pray that they will love you as much as I do.”
I put away the letter and bawl my eyes out.
***
My awkwardness and time gap can’t hinder me. I fly to Delhi the next morning, our home city, where Srishti is being treated. With me are her beloved purple orchards, a few of her favourite literature, which I will recite to her in my voice over the weekend.