Karan Johar, if you are by any chance reading this and feel that you want to develop this introduction into a movie starring a charming 30 year actor who wears glasses who has this run-your-fingers-through-my-hair hair and loves to play scrabble; just tweet me. We can discuss the logistics over coffee. #karanhavekoffeewithkiran
She sends this to him on BBM on a cold autumn evening knowing this will be the first thing he’ll read when he wakes up.
I know this is going to sound ridiculously silly to you because it is blatantly obvious but there is a lot of distance between us. I wish that you did not live so far away. You can’t be in my existential space on a Friday night far. You exist on the other side of the world from me and I exist here. Right here. Time zones and hemispheres were a part of irrelevant knowledge that I acquired long ago that remained tucked away in my brain (right beside dissecting a circle learning to label Bohr diagrams) that has now come in use. I have to keep in mind that you are nine and a half hours ahead of me. I have to add 9 and a half hours on to the time it is in my space to know what time it is in yours. When I’m ready to go to sleep you’re just waking up. When I’m getting ready for work you are working on your writing before bed. Technology is amazing but deceptive. When you instantly reply to my messages it distracts me. I’m conscious of the reality that you live there and I live here but each day I get tricked into believing that you are close by and the distance between us is illusionary. When something funny happens I always want to tell you. When I buy something I always want to show you. It feels like we live near each other, always connected but just too busy to spend meet. But the reality is with the indubitable distance between us, we can’t.
I was thinking about this last night as an embodied being, not simply an isolated mind that is connected to eyes looking at a world map. When I think about it as a body who just recently travelled; my experience hits me with the undeniable truth that you are far. A thirteen hour plane ride far. In order to see you I have purchase a ticket and drive to the airport. Present my passport to show proof of my identity (which often times I question), submit my luggage and walk into the screening room. A room where I have take off my shoes, empty my pockets and put all my belongings into a plastic rectangular container and then onto a belt to be scanned like I’m a criminal. After proving myself to be no threat to national security wait in the boarding area. When called to board the plane I walk in, find my seat and anxiously wait until the plane takes off into midair where the ground is now the plane beneath my feel slowly taking off into the clouds. The clouds, where I’ll be travelling through for 8 hours. After my journey in the sky I’ll have to get off the plane when it lands a country somewhere in Europe. I then have to go through another security check which can be quite the erotic experience in a sterile kind of way. I have to wait 2 hours in another country’s airport and then board another plane which will take off and fly into the clouds for a little over seven hours.
Do you know what this means? It means I have to fly over more than two huge oceans to be in your existential space and those oceans are gigantic! Like if I dropped a penny into one of the oceans I’d never be able to find it huge. Never mind a penny, if my plane (which is miniscule compared to the body of the ocean) were to crash and fall into the ocean, the chances of recovering my body are slim to non because the ocean would swallow me up whole. Even the chances of recovering the black box are rare. The plane would have to be 1/4th the size of the ocean to even be noticeable. Then once I land I have to clear customs agin, wait for my baggage and find a taxi all alone in a country that is completely foreign to me. Take an hour long cab ride to my hotel (where hopefully you’d be waiting) just to be in your personal space.
That’s FAR. You’re really really far. The first time that we met was sheer luck (one of my most memorable nights that almost feels like a dream every time I think about it, which is ofen) and the second was just a calculated coincidence. What if there isn’t a next time and we don’t meet again?
I know. I know that if there isn’t a next time then there just isn’t a next time because that’s life and life just goes on and on and on until we get old and die and leave this seemingly meaningless existence; but, I’d be really sad if I could only text you through it. Heart broken sad. I’d be forever carrying around a broken heart sad (even to places where I’m supposed to be happy. I’d look happy but feel sad inside). All I want is to spend an evening with you on your couch, playing with your hair while you read to me my favourite book. Okay perhaps that’s not what I want. I couldn’t do with an evening. If this wish of mine ever came true I’d never let go of you. I really don’t want to know what you think of all of this. I don’t even want for you to reply to but I cannot help but think how stupid this is, how stupid and unfair this all is.
His reply: you can make that the opening to your book.
Her reply: goodnight
His reply: sleep tight