Letters anyone can read

Aiman, I keep trying to explain to people here what a mamak stall is, and I can't. I say it's a restaurant. That's wrong. I say it's a place that never closes, with plastic chairs and a television showing football from somewhere else, where a man pours tea from one jug to another like he is pulling a ribbon. That's closer. What I can't explain is that it was the only place in a city of eight million where I felt someone was waiting for me. You were. Every night, with the second chair already pushed out with your foot. Thank you for the chair.

Javier, nunca supe tu apellido, pero me sé de memoria todas tus canciones desafinadas. Fueron cuatro meses de balcones. Tú en el tercer piso de enfrente, yo en el segundo, y entre nosotros una calle sin autos por donde solo pasaban perros y el viento de la cordillera. Cada tarde aplaudíamos por los médicos y después tú tocabas, mal y con ganas, y yo cantaba más fuerte para taparte. Cuando todo volvió a abrir, te vi una vez en la panadería y no me atreví a decirte nada. Fuera del balcón eras un desconocido. En el balcón eras mi única compañía. Te echo de menos, vecino.

Kerem, artık çayı kendim demliyorum ama hiçbir zaman seninki gibi olmuyor. Ya çok açık oluyor ya çok koyu. Sen hiç ölçmezdin, demliğe bir bakar 'tamam' derdin, ve tamam olurdu. Dört yıl boyunca sınavlardan önce, ayrılıklardan sonra, babamın hastalandığı o uzun kış, o bardak hep masamda belirdi. Hiç teşekkür etmedim, çünkü teşekkür edilecek bir şey gibi gelmiyordu, hava gibiydi. Şimdi biliyorum: hava gibi olan şeyler en çok teşekkürü hak edenlerdir. Teşekkür ederim, oda arkadaşım. Bir dahaki çay benden.

Hania, kal jo bhi number aayen, tum wohi raho gi jo aaj ho. Mein ne bhi aisi ek raat guzaari thi, chhat ke pankhe ko ghoorte hue, is yaqeen ke saath ke kaghaz ka ek tukda bata dega mein kaun hoon. Usne nahi bataya. Mein ne khud seekha, aahista aahista, ghalat moar le kar, wapas aa kar. Tumhari zindagi ek result nahi, ek lambi sadak hai, jis pe bohat se dhaabe hain, bohat si baarishein, bohat se log jo tumhe chai pilayen ge. Ab so jao. Subah mein tumhare saath screen dekhoon gi, aur jo bhi ho, wapsi pe hum jalebiyan khayen ge.

Asad, nobody tells you that a friendship can end without a fight. Ours just thinned out, like a track running into the desert. A wedding I missed, a call I meant to return, your new city, my new job, and then one day I realised I didn't know your children's names. There was no last argument to regret. That is almost worse: I can't apologise for anything, so I can't mend anything. I only want you to know that when something funny happens, my first thought is still to tell you, and my second is to remember I can't. I'm ringing this week. Pick up, you old fool.

يوسف، لقد وصلت سفينتي أخيراً، وأردت أن تكون أول من يعرف. حصلت على المنحة. سأدرس الطب كما كنت تقول دائماً، يوم كنت أضحك وأقول إن الأحلام للأغنياء فقط. كنت تلتقط حجراً صغيراً وترميه في البحر وتقول: انظري، حتى الحجر الصغير يصنع دوائر. لم أفهمك يومها. أفهمك الآن. إن كنت ما زلت تجلس هناك، فاعلم أن واحدة من تلك السفن كانت لي، وأنك كنت المنارة.

علی، مجھے ہر کتاب میں تمہارا رکھا ہوا پتا ملتا تھا، اور میں نے کبھی کسی کو نہیں بتایا کہ میں وہی کتابیں جان بوجھ کر لیتی تھی۔ میرے پاس اب ان پتوں کا ایک پورا ڈبہ ہے: چنار کے، املتاس کے، اور ایک پیپل کا جو ٹوٹ کر آدھا رہ گیا ہے۔ میں نے کبھی ان پر کچھ لکھا نہیں، کبھی تم سے کچھ کہا نہیں۔ محبت کبھی کبھی بس یہی ہوتی ہے: کسی کی چھوڑی ہوئی نشانیاں چپکے سے جمع کرتے رہنا۔ اگر تم یہ پڑھو تو جان لو کہ تمہارے پتے کہیں گرے نہیں۔ کسی نے انہیں سنبھال کر رکھا۔

Faisal bhai, aap ki kursi pe ab ek naya larka baithta hai jo headphones laga kar kaam karta hai. Woh acha hai, tez hai, lekin raat ke do baje chai ke liye awaaz nahi lagata. Aap ne mujhe pehle hi hafte bata diya tha ke akhbar mein sab se zaroori cheez khabar nahi, saath kaam karne wale hote hain, kyunke khabar to subah tak purani ho jaati hai. Aap retire hue to hum ne cake kaata, taaliyan bajayin, aur mein ne kuch nahi kaha. Ab keh raha hoon: shukriya, aur khuda hafiz. Aap ke anguthon ke nishaan abhi tak purani files pe hain. Mein unhe saaf nahi hone deta.

Divya, the number on that screen was never the size of you. I watched you shrink in front of it in that hot little café while the man at the counter pretended not to see you cry. You thought your whole life had just been decided by a website that kept crashing. It hadn't. Ten years later you are a woman who fixes things, who rings our mother every evening, who laughs too loudly at weddings. None of that was on the marksheet. If you have a daughter one day, and she stands in front of a screen like that, tell her what I am telling you now: breathe. The screen is small. You are not.

Ellie, we were right to stop, and I want to say thank you before I say goodbye. Three years of setting alarms for each other's evenings. Three years of watching you eat breakfast while I ate dinner, of holding the phone to the window to show you my rain while you showed me your snow. We got so good at the distance that we forgot to ask whether we were good at anything else. I'm not angry. Most days I'm not even sad. I just wanted you to know that somewhere in me there is still a small clock set to your time, and I am going to let it run down gently.