It’s four in the morning, the end of December
I am writing you in the hope that this is my last letter 
A letter of all letters
A masterful tome of you and me and all the worlds we have seen.
I will be dead by the time you read it
Your famous blue raincoat hangs on my coathook
It rains as though you will ring the bell any moment
As though you had just puffed out a cigarette at my door
As though the world had never changed season
As though the coathook hadn’t been bare across three hundred years
As though there hadn’t been a winter of three hundred years
As though I was once alive
As though we had once been in love.

…

Atreyee Majumder is an anthropologist and writer based in Bangalore.