Love Letter to a Doosh
23 July 2021 — 11.47 hours — Friday — Nainital — Sitting on a wooden bench under a fatass, oldass, sober-as-fuck tree, drinking sugarless black coffee & bun-omelet — surprisingly, it’s not raining — the tree has my ass covered when it does rain/drizzle/thunder shower. Hey, Doosh We met in June ’15 — six years ago. You had just turned 17. I was teaching SAT in the class that you walked in with coffee spilled all over your light-colored T. Through the class, you kept taking smallish sips from the take-away coffee cup that was placed precariously on your chair’s writing pad. There’s no way in hell, I would’ve known in that moment that I — twice your age — would be writing you a letter —6 years later— when you’re 23 & you’ll be reading my novel — 143 Days — about my star-crossed yet indelible love story when I was 23. A lot more than that extraordinary fact, I’m bloody glad to have you in my life. And I say that not to be nice or kind, I say that as the truth. It’s also true,