Dearest friend,
I don't know what makes me think I should have told you the things that I am writing now. You might think this is the most nonsensical thing I could do.
Considering the life of detachment I have gracefully forced upon myself, I should not even admit these things.
Guilt and regret are the remnants of my abnegated behavior.
Look at my stubbornness: I still tell myself, "Hold on, everything could be utopian yet."
Here with you, my regret is: why didn't I just hold the hand of friendship which you extended? Even today I remember the day when I had the opportunity to make the choice of letting my past go and moving towards a brighter and more mobile life, unlike the stagnant one which I live daily.
You would recognize the time when people around you were weak and reacted in a way that was almost expected, palpable. I understand this because I experienced this. Thanks to you, I felt much better after talking to you that day.
My thoughts are clear. I totally agree if you say I don't have to send a lengthy mail, and I also understand that I am not a stranger to you.
But I do know why I want to explain: that's just my tendency, and the zeal to clarify the objective of my behavior.
The biggest truth is that my character is much more like a lie, and the whole lot of it is fictitious. I think everything should be perfect, in what I do and in what I want to do. But this letter is as much truth as my existence.
I do not know what you would think of this mail, if at all you read it in your free time.
Will you think I am writing this now because you are studying abroad and heading towards your dreams with a better leap?
Please don't furrow your eyebrows at that statement. I know you are not narrow-minded; but I am.
I chose to write all this because I always cherish the little time I spent with you in college. I even visited you and spent time studying at your home.
I thought to be coy, making a pretense of shyness or modesty which is intended to be alluring, and being unwilling and hesitant; disinclined. And to no astonishment of mine, I was alluring with my politeness and over-humbleness for quite a few people, and unwilling and hesitant for many others. But I have not regretted those relations. I am not saying you never chastised me or made fun of me. You did, and it did hurt too. But there are a few people in my life, including my parents and sibling, whom I like no matter what, since I learnt simply, with no reason, to like and love them from the first time I saw them; and happily, you fit in there.
So I regretted it when I did not hold on to you and to the kindness and friendship which you showered on me.
I am quite relieved, as I have shared a little with you on this paper.
I am sorry I have chosen to tell you this on your birthday. I did it because you would be at the peak of your good mood, and I am sure I am not a spoiler.
From your other friends you would get valuable gifts, but all I can give you is explanation and more words, that too only if you acknowledge my stupidity. And if my writing is in any way a study for you, as you are a research student, I would gladly write back to you every now and then over the months.
I want to hold on to you. You are, or will already be, a new man with a much broader perception. I might still behave merely like a boy to you; at least this is not quite unheard of, since I have such a popular background for being peculiar, after all. Will you be my friend, now and when you return to India?
If you ask me: yes, I want it, and I am selfish, and hopefully I will be worthy by then.
I know you would tell me I don't have to be like this; you have already told me that. But for a few moments let me be like this, because writing is one of the only few things I know.
Expecting to hear back.
Many more happy returns of the day. Now and always.
Be flamboyant and elegant, as you already are.
Be careful and safe.
"Lovingly" is not enough, "faithfully" seems weird, and "obediently" feels like a word I don't use.
Warm and best regards,
Pavan
P.S. Please forget this letter if you find every part of it is bull***.