Dear Mahir: Part 1 

Last time I wrote to you like this was probably in 2010. For past few days you’ve been constantly on my mind. I hate to admit it but sometimes I forget about you. You slip out of my mind for months at a time.  But I love you.

I have been accused of not loving people as others might do. I have been told that I will never understand the highs and lows of a lover’s emotions because I have never fallen in love myself ( at least not in the conventional sense). While that might be true to some extents, nonetheless it hurts to listen to others say that you don’t know what loving is. That simply degrades you to something not human. I love. In the purest form I can. It might look like something else. It might feel like something else. But at the end of the day it’s actually love. 

I forget about you sometimes but that doesn’t mean you don’t matter anymore. People are unconscious about their breathing most of the time but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

I am twenty-two now. Four years older than what you were when you left us. At that time it felt like you were too old; a responsible and mature adult. It is now that I understand that you were just a kid. Eighteen. Barely legal. If I am doing the maths correctly, you would have been thrity-one this June. And here I am, just twenty-two, feeling older than you.

I wish I had that photograph with me. Didi might still have it. I don’t know for sure though. It melts my heart whenever I think of it. I am six years old. Ugly child wearing a white laced frock, hair cut short like that of a boy. You have lifted me up in your arms and one of my hands is on your shoulder. Didi is standing close to you on right, almost as tall as you. On the far right the two brothers are making faces towards the camera. There was something permanent about that picture. I will try to get a copy of it if it is still surviving.

Missing you, always!

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