Dear friend,
Hello. How are you? It’s been a few months since you passed and years since we last saw each other. My mother tells me you changed a lot since the time we knew each other. I remember us as girls. The memories are sharper since I am home. I wonder how much you would have remembered. I wonder if you were home too and we passed by each other, would we pause to talk?
Do you remember the time we counted the steps from my house to yours? I think it was about 15 of our baby steps jumping to go from flat number 16 to flat number 14 on the same floor. Do you remember all the times I would call you on our intercom, asking when we could meet to play downstairs, giggling because I could hear the phone ring from my house in yours? Do you remember convincing me there was potato inside rajma beans? I think about it whenever I cook rajma. It reminds me of how gullible I was and how, when you’re young, even someone being 6 months and 12 days older gives them indisputable credibility.
Did I ever tell you I cherished sharing the last minutes of playtime with you, walking back to our house and going up the lift because we were too tired to take the stairs? Did you know I never forgot your birthday? All those years of attending each other’s birthday parties, perhaps. I remember you always invited my sister along with me, and I invited your younger brother — a privilege granted only to special friends. I can’t imagine how devasted he is.
This time, I went for a walk in the rain and remembered how once we took shelter in the parking lot, walking delicately in puddles and making wet footprints all across until the rain stopped. I remember going to your house and how you would tell me family gossip. I felt indignant on your behalf at relatives who had wronged you, but also special since I was the important one out of all the colony friends to be privy to family drama.
I remember being jealous of you too: jealous that you got your cycling training wheels off first and were faster, leaving me behind; jealous that you did better at school than me; jealous that you were never self-conscious and always yourself; jealous of how much your father adored you. I wish I could apologize for all the times I was immature and for all the times we didn’t say hello because it had just been too long, too many friend group changes had happened, or just because we were too different. I wish I could have been a better friend and known all the different versions of you.
Things are the same here and, in a way, much different. I rarely see your parents and wouldn’t know what to say if I did. Your house isn’t noisy anymore. There’s no shrill sound of your mom calling after you, so loud that it would even reach our house. I am reminded of memories of you at unexpected times. Recently, while walking at night, I saw a girl about 13 with short hair and a huge headband, and I thought it was you. Another time, I baked a cake and remembered how you came to our house to give us some that your cousin had made for the first time.
I still look at your LinkedIn. I see your beaming photo before your graduation, sharing how you were staying positive while looking for a job. I see your celebration post at getting a job, just 6 months ago. I cannot bear to type “your name + death” on Google to re-read all the news articles.
I’m not sure why I’m writing this to you. It almost feels wrong. This is not my grief — it belongs to your family, your friends, your colleagues, and everyone who knew you longest and closest. I never knew and will never know the 26-year-old version of you. For everyone, you will be forever aged 26, while for me, somewhere between 5 to 12. The child who was my neighbor and best friend, with whom I shared a unique friendship full of childhood competitiveness, jealousy, silliness, and pettiness.
I don’t have many things to remember you by. An old video of us dancing to “Maahi Ve” stuck in a video camera somewhere. And an old photo of us hugging at a birthday party. Maybe I’m writing this so that there exists another version of you on the internet. One who isn’t dead in a car crash in a news article where they didn’t even get your age right. But a truer, albeit older one. One who was very much alive, smart, hardworking, a good friend, an amazing daughter, a proud sister, who loved and was so, so loved.
I’ll miss you forever,
Prashansa
