I write to you of a girl I knew who grooved to Kishore on sunny mornings, who would sit me down and gently explain the nuances of shayaris and Marathi words I failed to pick. Safar Jahan is what she called herself, I perhaps will never truly understand her words as it’s lost in translation.
Our walk back would be her trying to convince me how Vada Pav is probably the greatest thing in the world, and I disagreeing for the hundredth time. She perhaps is one of the few people who saw me when no one did, she eyes bared no judgement, and only spoke words of kindness. Our times spent together were us gushing over our love for you, we mourned your loss, rejoiced your happiness but mostly found our brokenness to exist in yours. We didn’t speak about the depths of our soul neither did we confide in one another, our language was different, but it never stopped her from saying,” Hi Tenzin!” every time I walked by the corridor.
I want you to know she loved you dearly, her heart ached for you. Somewhere along the lines of “Is it better to speak or die” her eyes rolled tears and sniffled away. She will no longer whisper to me what I am listening to as I sit by the swing on nights sleep has escaped us both, and I will no longer be able to say Sufjan without my heart breaking.
You see, she was a girl of many things- of love, of words, of music but mostly of warmth and her winsome smile as someone wrote today. I want you to know of her and I want you to remember for she loved you dearly- it is only right she gets the love she deserves for we have failed her- In my misplaced trust in you I wish to see her smile as her soul dances away in tonight’s rain. I hope she was humming to her favourite Kishore.
Tum Musafir Ho.
Rest In Power