23rd April 2026
Dear precious angel,
I used to gaze at my nana’s coat hanging on the back of the door—the door of the room where I would sleep nestled between my nana and nani, my papa and mummy. I observed it every single day, and every single day, it frightened me. Strange, isn’t it? Who fears a mere coat? But my child’s mind had woven a strange belief: inside the shoulder of that coat, where a curious bulge lurked, lived a black crow. Perhaps the seed of that delusion was planted by the dreams I had during my afternoon naps. How bizarre they were—I would see Indian currency notes, bearing Mahatma Gandhi’s serene face, floating like kites across a vast blue sky. Yes, my dreams were that strange.
I still remember my nursery school days. Every morning, I would ask my nana for a one-rupee or two-rupee coin. I needed it for an old woman—a friend of my nani, my mummy. She would demand payment for her unique service: swinging me on a staircase. There was a single stair kept on our building’s rooftop. Every afternoon, my nani would take me up there. I would step onto that stair, stand tall, and the old woman would push and pull it gently, creating a swinging rhythm. I would beg her to continue, and she would reply with a teasing smile, “Bring me one or two rupees tomorrow, and I’ll give you your ride again.”
Here is what interests me most: my nana would leave that money for me on our bed before leaving for work. He could have dismissed my request as childish nonsense. But he loved me too deeply for that. He always left the coins. How tender he was. How loved he made me feel.
I love you, my dear nana. I love you so much. Your memories will never fade from my heart, my soul, or my mind—and I will never allow them to, not as long as my pen can write. I miss you each and every day.
Your gem, Vivek Prasad
