Bengaluru, the week after
Dear Meera,
You drove across the city at midnight with soup. I haven't forgotten. When everything fell apart in March, you showed up with groceries, a phone charger and a plan written on the back of a bill. You sat on a hospital bench for six hours and never once looked at the time. You never made any of it feel like a favour. You made being looked after feel normal. I can't pay all of that back. But I can start. There's a sheet of stamps further down. First, though, properly this time: thank you.
With gratitude, always