Dear Ryan,

Do you remember the time when we'd dress up and pretend to be movie stars, pop stars.. rockstars?

Or the time when we'd draw out little story boards on paper for Our version of the movies we didn't like and those that we did? 

Or the time when we'd use deo bottles as mike and sing songs of love with such passion?

That was the plan, right?

Do you remember the bizarre things I'd tell you?

I'd tell you how I was not going to do the whole long-gown thing for the red carpet. I'd tell you how I was going to show up in leather pants with pointy red heels that would bring out my ass, along with the colour of my eyes. I'd tell you to wear a plum blazer with baggies, for some reason. I'd tell you we'd make a statement. They'd think we are lovers. But we'd never clear the air when Simi would call us for a rendezvous, or even Oprah; because, 'lovers' didn't do it. 

"Just because we're barely 10 doesn't mean we don't feel as much", you'd tell me.

Do you remember the bizarre things you'd tell me?

You'd tell me how we'd walk into a restaurant and people would stop eating to witness our grand entry. You'd tell me how each of our many moves was going to be as precious as timeless art. You'd tell me that we weren't ordinary. You'd tell me that we were different; we were magic! You'd tell me that we'd make our way through the very expensive restaurant, take our seats and lose ourselves in conversations; conversations not about the work that's got us all that we have, but conversations about us. You know? Because we'd still be the humble souls in touch with our roots. 

"You'd still just order cheese pizza and coke, idiot!", I'd tell you.

You'd never disagree.

We thought we'd be rockstars! 

We never saw any reason to believe otherwise.

We were certain of the applause we'd get. We were certain of the autographs we'd sign.

We were certain that we won't tour too much.
Only Paris, maybe.
And New York. And China.

I'd planned to trick you into touring Korea too. You never wanted to go back to your roots, apparently! It was always Delhi for you. And people would think a Korean kid has it hard away from home. 

Such grand plans.

Then came 2004.

You died.

I wonder what you'd think of me now?

Of my right choices or the sheer dearth of them. 

Of each smoke curl that escapes my parted lips.
Of my excessive drinking.

Of each time I say anything. Or think it.

You're probably a rockstar in Heaven now - however fantastically foolish that sounds - and you're probably building up anticipation in our audience about my arrival.

A good thing, that.

Anyway, I write this to tell you that'd someday I might get to see you again.
Someday I might get to touch you again.
Someday I might have your breath in sync with mine again.
Someday, that's not today.
Today, I found a picture of you.
I burnt it.
In my defence, you left me alone.
YOU DIED!

Sincerely,
Me.