I met Jeevan in the summer of 2000, before Dave broke my heart at the Second Cup.

Jeevan and Dave had met in residence, and bonded quickly thanks to shared passions for foosball, hip hop and girls. I was the summer fling who waited on the sidelines, but was easily accepted as one of the boys. As Dave made his rounds at the pub, batting his pretty long lashes at pretty young things, Jeevan and I would watch from the corner with our beer, admiring Dave's confidence and how everything seemed to come to him so easily. The boys often teased Jeevan about his poetry and that perpetual 'nice guy' aura that never got him the girl. His
sensitivity and sense of humour made waiting for Dave bearable.

I can imagine the sorrow smothering Dave as he wrote the email last night, telling us that Jeevan died this weekend while swimming near Ithaca.

After months of nightly visits, Dave and I got back together the next summer. Jeevan introduced me to One Hundred Years of Solitude and the poetry of Pessoa. We continued to hang out at the Common Ground and watch the foosball loser drink the Vindaloo sauce at Darbar. I was still one of the boys. After the second break-up when Dave moved to Toronto, I let it slip that the sleepovers hadn't stopped. I was sitting on the steps in front of the house on Mack Street, my head down, getting yelled at by Jeevo. He told me how much he loved and respected Dave and that despite his amazingness in so many aspects, a great gal like myself should have known better than to give in to Dave once again. I was moved. They were the best of friends, and yet Jeevan's heart was too big to take sides.

The boy was all heart.


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