Dear Vishwa,

I am not a person of many words. Or perhaps I am, but only on paper. In person, I often fail to say what I mean, what I feel. So I’m taking the coward’s way out and writing to you.

You are getting married.

The first time I heard, I had just returned to Seattle from my visit to India, about four years ago now. I remember how strange it felt to learn something so big, so life-shaping, so late. How I wished I had known earlier. How I wished I had met this new person in your life, instead of just waving at him a couple of times through a screen. How I found out only once everyone else already knew. Maybe distance did that. Maybe I didn’t make it easy to feel close across oceans and time zones.

Because to me, it wasn’t just someone I know getting married.
It was my childhood friend. In fact, when I really think about it, you might have been my very first friend.

I still remember wanting to be you, wearing the same dresses, the same shoes, because I thought that if I looked like you, maybe I’d grow into you, too.

Our summer afternoons were spent rehearsing plays we took very seriously, and our evenings were spent forcing family members to sit through them. We shared everything so easily back then.

You taught me how to dance. How could I forget you dancing like Michael Jackson, and me watching in absolute awe, convinced there was nothing you couldn’t do?

You taught me how to paint too. I remember your painting, “all in one color,” as you liked to call it. Those mountain ranges you made in oil pastels. Deep Prussian blue. Layers of mountains dissolving into each other, fading softly into the distance. Quiet, vast, impossibly calm. Even then, your art felt like you: contained, patient, expansive.

You always welcomed me into your world. I went with you and your friends to Manali, and it felt easy then. So easy to belong. Isn’t it funny how effortless that was as children? Imagine me joining your friends on a trip now. The awkwardness would be unbearable. We’d probably need a formal introduction and tea first. Or maybe it’s all in my head, and maybe it’s still as simple as it once was.

You once told me you wanted to take up art. I remember thinking what a fine artist you’d make. And yet, somehow, you became an even better doctor. I don’t know much about your field, but I know this: you care. And that has always been the truest thing about you.

Somewhere along the way, we drifted. I don’t know exactly when. Was it when I turned into an angry teenager and threw a cardboard piece at you on my birthday? Or was it all the times I bit you growing up? (I maintain that those were acts of affection.) Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we misplaced the ease we once had. Though I will say, I secretly called it when I saw that college picture on your Instagram. I knew you and Vandit were something special. Well… sort of.

I won’t dwell too much on the past. (I understand the irony, after writing so much of it.)

I’m writing because as your wedding draws closer, I’m forced to sit with the possibility that I might not be there. And I wanted you to hear all of this from me. Maybe it’s easier to say this in writing than in person.

I hope you have a beautiful wedding.
But more than that, I hope you have a beautiful marriage.
A full life.
I hope your home is always filled with the smell of something warm cooking and the sound of laughter that spills into the hallway.
I hope you always find time to dance in the kitchen. Even on tired weekdays. Even when the music is coming from someone’s phone.
I hope you take trips you never planned and love the ones that go wrong.
I hope you grow into new versions of yourselves without losing the old ones.
May you always be friends first. Arguing about playlists, stealing food from each other’s plates, and sharing inside jokes no one else understands.
May your years be stitched with stories worth retelling.
And when life gets messy, may you always find your way back to each other. To the same table, the same laughter, the same love that started it all.
May your love be modern enough to survive the times, and old-school enough to last forever.

And finally, I hope I get to witness your life. If not in every moment, then at least in the important ones. I hope I don’t miss any more turning points in your story.

Because even with the distance, even with the years, you will always be the girl I learned how to be a friend from.

Yours,
Shrusti