Srishti and I were best buddies, inseparable since childhood. When I became a cop, I lost contact with her. I heard she opened the boutique she had always wanted to and was thriving in her own way. So when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, it was a shocker.

I couldn't contact her for over four years even in the messaging era. On this sunny evening, over my coffee in the living room of my modest apartment in Worli, I muse on how it all happened.

At first she was my solace in this lonely, male-dominated workplace. Then I made friends, grew a spine. Catching criminals, solving cases in the crime branch kept me busy. Our video calls slowly dwindled, reduced to texts. They too became infrequent. I would blame work but at the end of the day they were excuses. More instances than I could count I had to end our calls prematurely. Clearly she was putting an effort to contact me which I couldn't return.

Despite my regrets, my inaction is to blame. I couldn't visit her; I cannot now, with the condition she is in. Not that I do not want to see her, the guilt I feel and the sorrow in my heart are too much. I couldn't bear to look at her.

I'm a chicken, telling my mom to stay by her side. My duties keep me occupied but the misery inside never dies. As a few months pass, mom tells me Srishti is coping well and is a fighter, unlike me! I'm a cop but at the end of the day I'm just a chicken!

2 more months pass. haven't opened the glass jar full of letters, her gift to me, my mom brought for Christmas.

One June rainy evening, I brace myself to open them. I have to, before it is too late. Something in my mind tells me I would regret this too if I hadn't acted.

Outside the rain lashes. Srishti's letters are filled with the things she wants to say, most of them asking after my well-being and my new job in the new city.

Wonder if you have been well, dear. Haven't heard from you in long.

New friends made old friends gone is not us is it. Do you think of me

Whenever we are. Even in silence I know our bond prevails

More lashing of the rain. Inverter fails. I read in candles flame. There is all but one letter left, the clock strikes 12.

This one speaks of her illness. This is a first.

I will fight this. I'm strong. I won't hold it against you if you can't come to see me. Won't you miss me when I'm gone?

Regret floods my heart like never before. I read on, my tears staining the paper.

I won't want you to grieve me. Even if you lost something you love, love will find you in another way.

Wait, isn't this similar to what Kafka said? Srishti is a literature freak than I am

You will always find another loved one. I will pray that they will love you as much as I do

I put away the letter and bawl my eyes out. The next morning I catch the flight to Delhi, my hometown and Srishti's where she is undergoing treatment. With me are her favourite purple orchards, some of her favorite literature which I will recite her in my voice over the weekend