The first letter wasn’t meant to go anywhere.
I didn’t even have his address. I didn’t care to look or search for it in years.
I just opened my notebook one evening, poured myself a drink, and wrote at the top of a clean page:
Ravi, I don’t know if this will matter, but I thought I would try.
That was it. I closed the book, finished the drink, and left it on the nightstand.
My start into remembering my brother for who he was for me.
We hadn’t spoken in seven years.
Not after the argument, not after the wedding he didn’t show up for and certainly, not after Ma died.
We grew up like twins, two years apart, but stuck together like the same piece of string.
I was the loud one, the risk-taker, the breaker of rules.
He was the one who cleaned up after, the one who kept things together.
Until he burst out one day and left.
The second letter came a week later. I just sat down and wrote:
I walked past a wedding today, kind of like the ones we used to sneak into. The carpets were still red and posh, no changes, it has been nearly a decade.
Each week, another one.
One sentence only.
That was the deal I made with myself.
Nothing dramatic.
Just… enough.
You made me laugh when no one else could. I hated how that stayed with me.
I found the old comic book we made in Class 6. You really thought we would be famous.
Ma asked for you in the hospital. I told her you would call. You never did and I never forgave you for that.
You are still my brother. That never stopped being true, even when I wholeheartedly tried.
There were no replies, of course.
I wasn’t mailing anything, I didn’t even know where to send them. These letters were just ghosts in my notebook, written in the hope that saying things out loud would soften their weight.
Still, I kept writing.
Maybe because some part of me wanted to believe he would feel it somehow, the way actual twins are supposed to, even when they are apart.
Week 11:
I got a promotion. First thing I thought was, “Ravi’s gonna be jealous.” Then I remembered you don’t even know what I do anymore.
Week 13:
You were wrong about Dad. He tried, in his own broken way. You never gave him the chance.
Week 16:
I drove past your old flat. Same curtains. I wanted that curtains to move to see your face, to check whether you were doing a casual stroll
The truth is, I was scared.
Not of writing but sending this.
Of what would happen if I actually mailed one, and he wrote back.
Or worse… if he didn’t.
But something was changing in me.
Every sentence chipped away at the armor I didn’t know I had built. Every week, I was angrier, then sadder, then finally… just tired.
Ready to put down my weapons.
So in week 21, I wrote:
I don’t want to win anymore. I just want my brother back.
I didn’t mail it.
I didn’t have to.
Because on week 22, just as I was about to sit and write again, there was a knock at the door.
Three sharp knocks and then silence. It was early morning, no-one will knock on my door at this time and only one another person who is living knew that I would be awake.
I stood still.
Heart hammering.
I knew, somehow, before I even opened it.
And there he was.
Older.. beard going grey but the same eyes. He looked calm.
No words.
Just two brothers, staring at each other through a doorway too many years wide.
To find me writing about my daily book insights, check it out here : https://ajayan.substack.com/p/5-steps-to-break-patterns-and-transform?r=36ippk