THE OTHER KIND OF MESSAGE
Your phone gets a hundred
pings a day.
This is not one of them.
A letter is written slowly, carried by real distance, and opened like a small gift on an ordinary Tuesday.
Dear Mei, It rained here all morning — the kind that makes the whole street smell like warm tin. I made far too much coffee and read your last letter twice. You asked what I miss most. I think it is having the time to answer properly. So here is an hour of it, posted to you. — Ananya, Jaipur

















