I hope this letter finds you well, wherever you may be.
We’ve run into strange times on this planet. I hope you’re safe, I hope the sickness hasn’t caught you or any of your loved ones.
Who are you staying with right now? Are you alone?
I’m just outside Delhi, in Ghaziabad. The apartment I’m in is quite nice, though our water motor doesn’t work. I wonder how the water system works where you are. I used to live in England where we’d pay a huge water bill each month and it would just come out of the taps whenever we needed it. I think I prefer that.
I’m not alone but I feel lonely sometimes. You must be in lockdown too like the rest of the world. I know we don’t know each other, but I guess we are united this somehow. I’m glad to be writing to you, to be honest.
How are you spending your time these days? It’s weird to be in one place for so long right? I think so anyway. I try not to think about it much. I spend a lot of time on the balcony. We have two baby pigeons in a nest at the side of the balcony. I’ve been watching them grow over the past few weeks. They’re beautiful little things, with big black beady eyes which seem too big for them. I suppose they’ll grow into them soon. They were tiny little sacks of skin and bone a few weeks back, and then they developed yellow hair-like feathers. I’d make chirping sounds at them and one would move its featherless wings up and down. The other couldn’t care less and would sit there without a care in the world.
Now they’re starting to grow their adult feathers. When I chirp at them now they turn away in fear; I suppose they’re survival instincts are developing. Humans aren’t to be trusted after all! Especially now, everyone is a potential harbinger of sickness and death…
I return to the same place every day. Things start to look different when you stare at them for so long. They look different at different times of day, in different lights, in different moods.
The water tanks in the distance are not extraterrestrial terraforms to me, everything is angular and spectacular. Residues of a Dreamworld. Everything is magic if you want it to be.
The park near our apartment is magical. The squirrels and rats seem to speak to one another, the crows taunt the pigeons. There are vibrant crimson blossoms falling from the trees, culminating in deep red pools on the ground. There is also a dead dog which has been there for several days, innumerable pieces of litter and excrement strewn all over – but I don’t look at those things anymore. Maybe I’ll tell you more about it next time. I’d like to hear more about your place.
I hope to hear from you soon.