Letter #8

Dear Bru-ther,

Maybe, there is a very thin line between being either in a “No Smoking” or in a “Smoking” section. It is thinner than a strand of hair or may be just a chair away. Just fifteen? No, even a ten rupees note can satisfy the need of my lungs. But it can’t be of more importance than my urge to die; cigarette is not helping me at all. Even after smoking for a long time by now, my heart remains to be the most damaged organ.

They were just two reasons why I started smoking and snorting. Firstly, I used to be the type to fall in love with the moon, the way you and Papa have always dreamed me to be; untouched by the flaws and loopholes of reality. But then, Moon and everything were and are beautifully unreachable. I tried again and again but, failed every time. Even, he was here for a moment and disappeared. You all started teaching me to hustle like a man, when I lost my faith in fairy tales. Maybe because you don’t want me to depend on one. All I knew about men was, they are bad. So, in order to be bad, I started smoking. Secondly, I wanted to die. Huff, relax and die. But, it is not that simple. I expect a relaxing death for myself. So, drugs were the best choice. Even after being an addict, the only thing which happened to me was bronchitis, that too acute. Why do I have such strong immunity? Help me, by telling me something I can do now. Something that takes my pain away, lowers down my volume and gradually turns by crests and troughs into a straight line. I am not asking you for assisted-suicide but, it is your responsibility to take away my problems. Isn’t it?

Then, why aren’t you here? I hope you are no more a fictional character and come into life someday. I hope I hug you and cry on your shoulders. I wish you are here. I wish you existed.

Miss you.

With love,


Letter #7

Letter #9


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