I think of you randomly. Whenever I write a poem, for instance.
I think of you how you would gently mail me, twisting my monkey ears over faulty grammar. Or a misplaced period. How you would then praise a certain turn of phrase. Listening to Rafi last night, I thought of our casual banter.
I am no good at cryptic crosswords. Or I would dedicate each small victory (of one word, or two) to you. It’s barely been four months since you’ve left, and already, it feels like a year. Or more.
I think of you when I remember what power cuts were like. Because in the first two months that we used to chat so regularly, the power cuts in Calcutta would eat up some of our conversation. But you would deftly pick up the threads. You told me that the building’s jenny had died.
I think of you when sometimes I note that the water for my tea boils exactly how you told me it should. “Until the water begins to laugh”.
I think of you randomly. Like when I see an object of utter and unadulterated beauty. Because till a few months back, I could write to you and tell you how lovely something was. And you would never contest it. No matter how trivial it was. Or how special.