The Lost Letter

Long ago, in the year 1947…

In the depths of a dense Indian forest, where the rivers sang lullabies and the wind whispered ancient secrets, lived a tribal couple—bound not just by tradition but by a love so raw, so pure, it defied the norms of their time.

Their love was an anomaly. For most men in the village, a wife was a means to an end, a bearer of children, and a source of income. Many sent their wives away as housemaids to British homes in exchange for money. But this husband? He clung to his wife like a tree clutching the earth during a storm. He couldn't bear the thought of sending her away—especially to a remote British household where meeting her would be nearly impossible.

But love is not always a possession. And sometimes, love demands sacrifice.

One evening, under the light of a hesitant moon, his wife placed her hand over his and spoke softly, her voice firm yet tender.

I can’t watch them mock you,

can’t stomach the whispers in the night.

How is it fair that I love you,

yet hide instead of standing in light?

You call it love—but love’s no chain.

Then why am I trapped in quiet pain,

a caged bird with clipped-off wings,

a voice that dies before it sings?

Let me go, my love, I plead.

Let me bleed if it keeps you whole.

Let me break so you are freed.

Let me prove it—body, heart, and soul.

But he couldn’t let her go. His voice cracked as he held her hands tighter, his heart pounding against his ribs like a prisoner rattling his cage.

Oh, my dear, I don’t even know how to write.

How will I talk to you? How will I fight?

You are the place where I lay my head,

Yet I, my love, am left unfed.

You are my home, my calm, my breath,

But I stand outside, as cold as death.

Knocking, waiting, bound by air,

Loving you—yet not welcome there.

But her mind was made up. And as they say, when a woman has decided, even the mountains must bow. She left on a cold winter morning, leaving behind only the scent of jasmine in his hut and an emptiness that clawed at his soul.

He received twenty rupees a month for her labour.

Twenty rupees.

A price tag on their love.

But desperation is a teacher unlike any other. The man, who had never held a pen in his life, picked one up. If the world wouldn’t let him speak to her, then he would write.

It’s a small price to pay

If it draws you near.

Just ink and paper, simple and plain,

Yet they carve my love so clear.

Strange how blackened letters flow,

Painting skies in shades untold.

And once I learn to write, my love,

You’ll see your beauty spun in gold.

But more than that, it pulls me close,

A bridge between my heart and you.

A whispered love upon the page,

Even when you fade from view.

Months passed. He stumbled through words and cursed his trembling fingers, yet never stopped. And by the time he finally crafted a proper letter, India had changed forever.

The British were leaving.

And that meant she could come home.

With trembling excitement, he penned down his heart.

My love,

I would be lying if I said I'm fine.

Each moment without you feels like a crime.

Each breath I take, so heavy, so bare,

A whisper of you that lingers in air.

It’s been nine months, twelve and a day,

Yet time stands still while you’re away.

Have you heard of this thing—a telephone?

They say voices can travel alone,

Like shooting stars that cut the sky,

Fleeting, yet real—so why can’t I?

The British are leaving, the war is done.

Come back to me—come home, my one.

See—I’ve learned to write, it’s true,

Just so I could say, "I love you."

Forever yours

He sent the letter.

And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

But no reply came.

For love may defy distance, but letters do not defy fate. The postman lost the letter, or perhaps, the letter—having tasted the air of freedom—chose to be lost. Whatever the reason, it never reached her hands.

And so, she kept waiting. Believing he had forgotten her. Believing that love, too, could be abandoned.

Meanwhile, the British employer, knowing that their time in India was coming to an end, exploited his workers to the fullest. He knew they were unaware of the news, knew that they believed their servitude was indefinite. He overburdened them with work, drained them of their strength, and treated them as mere tools—until their bodies broke before they could be set free.

They waited.

One by the river, one far from home.

Both were drowning, both alone,

Both reaching for a voice, a touch, a trace—

A love now lost in time and space.

Their nights were filled with fleeting dreams,

Their days a hollow, silent cry.

He was sure she’d find her way.

She was waiting for him to try.

But two months passed.

And his heart grew restless.

He travelled to the British household, only to hear the truth that shattered his world.

She had lost her mind—calling his name day and night. The employer, annoyed by her madness, had locked her away without food until she silenced.

And when silence came, it was not because she had recovered.

It was because she had left this world.

He stood still, the weight of her absence heavier than the sky itself. The British employer, now free to return to his own home, walked past him with a dismissive nod.

But the man had nothing left to lose.

He lunged at the employer, only to be beaten down.

Still, he ran.

Ran after the carriage, screaming her name into the wind, into the void, into the silence she had left behind only to find himself in the middle of nowhere.

And then, as if fate were mocking him one last time, something brushed against his feet.

The lost letter.

The letter he had written with his trembling hands, with the ink of love and longing.

He picked it up. Opened it. Read his own words.

And laughed.

Is it madness to break in a world gone blind?

Or is the madness in those who never mind?

If they call me crazy, let them cry—

For I have loved, and love won’t die.

Tell me, my friend, what is free will,

If not the right to love, to kill?

To choose whose touch becomes your prayer,

Whose name you’d whisper into air?

The question is

Who was truly free?

The British employer, who held power but lacked love?

The wife, who gave everything in devotion?

The husband, who defied fate but was crushed by it?

Or the letter—the lost letter—

That belonged to no one, yet carried the weight of love itself?

In the end, I’m just a storyteller, I don’t give answers I just tell stories.

-Dweep Goyal