When he was fifteen, he used to hate the world. Now, at twenty-four, he talks about running it: all you need is a head full of sensible, pragmatic ideas. He has a song for every person, every mood. He talks passionately about his ideas, his plans, and music. He doesn’t even treat me like a kid anymore. And, although he has forgotten how to sit still, he’s now more interesting than he ever was as a teenager.

It always rains when he’s here. For some reason, Delhi loves him in a way it never loved me. Anyway, he copied a beautiful song to my iPod today and then played it on his guitar. A happy, colourful song. A song for people who love a lot of things. This is our song, he said.

…

We once had this conversation about the sort of people we’d grow up to be. You’ll be a physicist, of course. But, pata hai, I’ll be so amazing you won’t even recognise me. He was older, wiser. He was my childhood hero. I believed him.

Now, these years later, he has turned into a magician.

Ideally, I’d love to be a magician too. I’d love to be free and awe-inspiring and a little impatient. I’d love to say impressive things. I’d love to have interesting opinions, and tell people all about them. Yes I know I’m restrained and introverted, but still. Someday.