# Kajla's Letter The letter arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. Ranu could tell by the way her mother held it—fingers trembling slightly, the envelope creased and worn—that it came from somewhere far away, somewhere that mattered. She didn't ask questions. Instead, she watched her mother sink into the old wicker chair on the veranda, the kind that had belonged to her grandmother, the kind that still held the shape of countless afternoons. "It's from your Aunt Kajla," her mother said finally, though Ranu had already guessed. There was only one person who wrote letters anymore—everyone else had moved on to telephones and hurried conversations that left you feeling emptier than before. Ranu settled beside her mother on the worn steps. The monsoon had just begun; the sky hung low and grey, and the smell of wet earth rose from the garden. Her mother unfolded the letter carefully, as though it might break, and began to read aloud. Her voice had changed—it had become younger somehow, the way it used to sound when she spoke about her childhood. "Dearest sister," the letter began, "I write to you from a place where the rain sounds different. Here, it patters on glass and metal. In our village, it soaked into the earth, didn't it? I've been remembering that lately—how the rain used to bring the earthworms up, and how we would collect them in old clay pots. You used to say they were the earth's way of breathing..." Ranu's mother paused. She folded the letter once and held it against her chest. When she looked at her daughter, there were tears on her cheeks—not the angry tears that came with arguments or disappointment, but something else. Something like longing. "Your Aunt Kajla," her mother said slowly, "left this place thirty years ago. She married a man from the city and went away. We fought about it. I said she was ungrateful, that she was abandoning us. She said I would never understand. We didn't speak for so long that when we finally did, we had to start all over again, like strangers learning each other's language." Ranu had never heard this story. She knew she had an aunt somewhere, a distant relative who sent gifts on birthdays—perfumed soaps and scarves that smelled of places Ranu had never been. She had assumed they were close, or at least that they had always been that way. The idea that her mother and this woman had once been angry with each other, that they had let years slip by—it seemed impossible. "Read it to me," Ranu said. "All of it." Her mother looked at the letter again, gathering courage the way one gathers water in cupped hands. "Dearest sister, I write to you from a place where the rain sounds different. Here, it patters on glass and metal. In our village, it soaked into the earth, didn't it? I've been remembering that lately—how the rain used to bring the earthworms up, and how we would collect them in old clay pots. You used to say they were the earth's way of breathing. "I don't know why I'm writing now. Perhaps because I'm old enough to understand that stubbornness is a luxury, and I've wasted enough of my life on it. Or perhaps because I read in the newspaper that the old mango tree near our house was cut down—you remember it, don't you? The one where we carved our initials? When I read that, I felt something crack inside me. I realized that the world I left is leaving too, piece by piece, and if I don't speak now, I may never get the chance. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I know what I did—I chose my own life over our bond. I don't regret leaving, but I've regretted the silence. I've regretted the fact that you didn't know about my children, and they don't know about you, except as a name in old letters I keep in a drawer. "I want them to know. I want them to know about the girl who taught her younger sister to braid rice straw into crowns, who stayed up all night helping with studies, who cried silently when our father died because she thought she had to be strong. I want them to know that you existed in my life not as an afterthought, but as the foundation of everything I became. "Life here is comfortable. I have a nice house, and my children are well-educated and settled. But comfort, I've learned, is not the same as being at home. Home is sitting on the veranda in the rain. Home is a voice calling my name across a courtyard. Home is someone who knows who you were before you learned to be anyone else. "I don't expect you to write back. I know too much time has passed. But I needed you to know that I think of you. I think of you more as I grow older, not less. And if you're willing, I would like to come home one more time—not to stay, but to sit with you, to drink tea the way Amma used to make it, to remember together. "I'm old now. My hands shake when I hold a pen. My children worry that I spend too much time alone. But in the quiet hours, especially when it rains, I'm not alone. I'm with you. I'm with all of us, the way we were. "If you can forgive me, send me a word. If you can't, I understand that too. Either way, know that I am still, after all these years, your Kajla." When her mother finished reading, she folded the letter carefully and held it in both hands. Ranu saw her shoulders move with quiet sobs—not sounds, just the body remembering how to grieve what it had lost. "Will you write back?" Ranu asked. Her mother looked out at the rain, which had begun to fall harder now, drumming against the earth with a rhythm that seemed almost like speech. "Yes," she said finally. "I think I will. I think we have one more story to tell each other before it's too late." That evening, as her mother sat at the old wooden desk with pen and paper, Ranu stood in the doorway and watched the rain. She thought about distance, about the spaces between people that grow wider the longer they're left unfilled. She thought about how a single letter could reach across years and silence and suddenly make everything real again. The rain continued into the night. And in the quiet of that house, two sisters—separated by time and geography but bound by something deeper than either—began to speak again.

 
The police van had arrived at the house as soon as word came of the body. Gathered outside, beyond the notice of those within, people whispered to one another in low tones. Yet no one had entered the house.


The Officer-in-Charge climbed to the third floor with his team.


A modest three-room flat. An open drawing room in the middle. Two rooms on either side of it, and a third room facing south. In the drawing room, two middle-aged people and two young men and women sat weeping, their grief uncontained.


The police moved toward the room where the body lay. The door was shut from within. They had to break it down to enter.


A fresh, vibrant young woman. Twenty-six or twenty-seven, perhaps. Like a dead fish hung on a hook, she hung from the ceiling fan, her sari wound tight around her neck. Her hands and feet lay still, dangling downward. She wore a blue salwar-kameez. Foam had run from her mouth, down her neck and chest, soaking the fabric. Her jaw clenched her tongue hard to one side. Her eyes, full of helplessness, lay half-open.


Hair that reached her waist hung tangled and wild about her body, like serpents. Her skin, dark as a closed hibiscus bud, had taken on a bluish hue. Different parts of her body were different colors—her face and eyes bluish, her hands and feet pale. Her round, innocent face was suffused with grace, as if a newly bloomed sunflower in a garden had suddenly become human. A beauty so perfect, so pure, it seemed almost divine—like the very form of the goddess Saraswati herself.


The Officer-in-Charge stood in the room for a while, taking in its details. By the south-facing window sat a small desk. It was neat and orderly, lined with volumes by celebrated writers—thoughtful, serious works. Shibdas, Sarat Chandra, Tagore, Humayun Ahmed, Hemingway, Eliot. It was clear the dead woman had loved books. In one corner of the desk, white tuberose flowers sat in a vase, their stems in water.


On the left wall hung a large portrait of the whole family. The father and mother seated in chairs, with the dead woman beside them, one hand on her mother's lap, clinging in an embrace. Behind them stood two younger siblings. It was soon understood that these were her brother and sister, and the middle-aged couple were her parents. Everyone in the portrait except one was in the drawing room below, and they were weeping.


The Officer-in-Charge opened his diary. He wrote: Cause of death—suicide. Age: twenty-seven. Profession: nurse. Place of work: Dhaka Medical College Hospital.


On the dead woman's desk lay a letter, held down by a paperweight. The Officer-in-Charge unfolded it and began to read.


Dear Mother and Father,
I know that by the time you read this, I will be gone. I lie now, peaceful and untroubled, the way I once fell asleep in your lap as a mischievous child.


Perhaps you wonder why I have done this.


A plague has spread across the world, and in my duty, I gave myself to the care of the afflicted—it was only natural. As a nurse, in this time of crisis, it is my responsibility to serve the nation and its people, is it not? Can you say that my family is any less important to me than this duty? You are each a whole world to me. There is no meaning to my life beyond this.


That day, when I returned from the hospital, I understood that I had brought this contagion into our home within my own body. As my fear grew, I kept my distance from you. Perhaps you never knew why.


Mother,
In trying to heal the world's sickness, I had become sick myself. The small, bright world that was mine suddenly fell into darkness. I could not bear—I could not allow you to carry this burden that is mine. To save you, what I have done is nothing at all.


Since I fell ill, I have suffered far less from the sickness itself than from the thought—over and over—of what if it were one of you? What if you caught it from me? My life has meaning only through you. You are the reason I have lived at all.

# A Letter Left Behind

And how can I accept it when my mere existence has suddenly become a threat to yours? Tell me, how?

This disease is a terrible one, Ma. Nowhere in the entire world has a cure been discovered yet. Once infected, the chances of survival are desperately slim.

I live in constant dread—every moment I fear one of you might fall ill. Every moment I think one of you is being infected. The thought of watching you suffer in such agony makes my skin crawl. With life still in this body, I cannot—I will not allow such a thing. So I have made this decision with a clear mind and careful thought.

Ma, after the lockdown ends, remember to get Father’s glasses reframed. Don’t stock sweets in the fridge—Father loves them, I know, but you know about his diabetes.

There’s a large blue envelope in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe with all my savings in it. I had promised to buy Tuli a laptop when she got admitted to university next year. Buy her one, Ma. Buy her that laptop.

I’ve already spoken to Jamil Uncle about Rohan. Once the lockdown is over, he’ll find him some work—something small, something steady. Don’t worry about it, Ma. Rohan’s employment will be arranged.

Father,

Mother ran away from her own home with you when she was barely past girlhood, leaving everything behind to tie her fate to your poverty. I’ve always seen her quarrel with you, fight with you, spend her whole life bickering and complaining. Yet, if you were two minutes late coming home, she’d grow restless. A slight cough from you and she’d be anxious. A small fever and she’d sit up all night, placing cool compresses on your forehead until dawn. Every moment she prayed to Allah for your health. Every preference you have, every dislike—Mother knows them all by heart.

Do you remember that time you had a stroke and were in the hospital for three days? Mother didn’t eat properly those three days. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t even speak to us. She’d sit with her face buried in her shawl like the darkness of a moonless night, for hours on end. She’d keep the door to her room shut for stretch after stretch. When she came out, I could see her eyes—red as tomatoes, swollen.

Mother cannot live without you, Father. She, this woman who has never been able to say the words “I love you”—her very breath is tied to yours alone. Oh Father, my precious father, stay well for Mother’s sake. Keep yourself alive for her. Watch over your health. Your years are catching up with you—be careful, Father.

Dear Tuli,

You’re the youngest of us three. Eighteen or nineteen years ago now, when you came into this world, another brushstroke of color was added to our small universe. We marveled at your tiny hands and feet like a kitten’s, at those blinking eyes, at that beautiful, magical face full of wonder. When Father walked in with you cradled in his arms, his face beaming with joy, Rohan and I actually started fighting over who would hold you first!

Look how big you’ve grown now, sister. Our precious little fairy, adored by all of us. Right now I wish I could pull you close and kiss your forehead. But alas, that’s not written in my fate.

That boy Foisal, Rahman Uncle’s son—he’s been bothering you on your way to and from college. I’ve talked to him about it. He won’t trouble you anymore.

How is Hiren these days? Did he get a job? What, surprised? How do you think I know about Hiren? What are you thinking?

# Listen, you fool

Listen here, you madcap, the day you left for college, I was tidying up your room, folding your books, when a letter came fluttering out onto the floor. When I opened it—oh, what love! You love him terribly, don’t you, you foolish girl?

I’ve already told Father about Hiran. When the time comes, everything will happen. Focus on your studies. Once you get admitted to university, you’ll have that laptop you’ve been pestering me for. See? Your scatter-brained sister remembered after all!

And listen, all my clothes—I’ve given them to you. Everything on the dressing table is yours now. All my jewelry too, starting today, it’s all yours alone. You’ve always loved kohl, haven’t you? All eleven of my kolh sticks are yours from now on. You used to say as a child that our grandmother died and became a star! You were right! I’m becoming one too, dear. Your beloved Kajaldidi will peek down at you from the evening sky, night after night, as the twilight star. Look at the sky when you get a chance, won’t you?

Dear Rohan,

From the day we were born, we two siblings—back to back—waged the Third World War in this house every single day. For every reason and none, I kept myself busy kicking and punching you whenever I pleased. It was as though we were born with an eternal, unspoken obligation and right to torment each other! We were like two despots, two Hitlers in the same room! Ha ha ha!

On the way to the hospital, Rupak used to bother me so much. He teased me every day. Then suddenly one day—I didn’t hear from him anymore. He stopped pestering me. I learned someone had beaten him badly and admitted him to the hospital. Later I found out—it was you who did it!

You mad boy, you’ve grown up so much, haven’t you? Even though we fought all day long, you still kept watch over me. You looked out for everything—whether I had any problems, whether I needed anything. You love me so much, yet you never once said it aloud. Why, you fool?

I’ve left my desktop for you. The TV remote is yours now. Look after the parakeet. If you can, let it out of the cage and set it free, brother.

Your birthday is coming up soon. I bought you a leather-strapped watch—the kind you like—to give you on your birthday. It’s in the desk drawer. It’s not expensive, brother, your sister couldn’t manage more. Take it and wear it.

By the way, I heard you’ve fallen for some girl named Puja? And she loves you too? Oh, Puja must have such awful taste to end up loving an ass like you! Ha ha ha!

Listen, brother, love doesn’t care about caste or creed or religion! Never reject her using religion as an excuse. I’ve arranged your job. Once you’re settled, bring her home.

Look after Father, Mother, and Tulip. The responsibilities we carry for the elders in our family are bigger than the whole world. The weight of duty is heavier than the entire cosmos! From now on, all responsibility rests on your shoulders. Father and Mother are aging, and Tulip still doesn’t understand so much. Don’t scold her—give her the chicken leg on her plate; she’s still so small! Take care of them, brother. Keep them well. Your burden has grown heavier because of me. Forgive me.

I never told you to your face—I love you! Now it feels like I made a terrible mistake. I could have said it at least once! Brother, even though I never said it aloud, I love you in the most extraordinary way! When you were out of sight for even a moment, my heart would ache terribly. If I didn’t see you for a single day, it would hurt so much in my chest.

# At Life’s Final Station

At life’s final station, I’ve come to tell you—I love you so deeply, my brother!

Don’t you dare cry for me! There’s a sun even behind the clouds. At the end of night, the world will gleam again in dawn’s light. Hold on, brother. Wait. Remember—everyone is looking toward you. Never forget that.

I never imagined the world would change its colors like this. In this world’s altered hues, all the blue-violet wings of thousands upon thousands of my dreams have been washed and worn to a drab, colorless gray.

Mother, you know how many walls we climbed over, how the sorrows of countless dream-charioteers became the kohl that lined this home—our home, built bit by bit with such tender care. And then, into my garden of flowers painted in the brush of joy, came a sudden, savage storm!

This wasn’t supposed to happen! O Mother, why did it happen then? Mother, you promised—I would have my own home someday. In my little garden, spring would bloom in flowers.

But none of it came to pass, Mother! Not a single letter of fate’s scripture can be erased. Perhaps in my own fate was written this very thing—that it would not be.

Today I ache to live! I want to sing the song of life one more time, with all the force in my throat. I want to stand up once more against all the decay and separation in this world, clutching all of you to my chest! I want to live so badly, Mother… so very badly!

But alas! At the boundary of life now stands a barbed-wire frontier. I must cross that border wearing death’s color on this body. I have painted myself with death’s hue. All paths back to this side are sealed off for me!

Forgive me, all of you. Don’t come near my corpse. Once the world has recovered, visit me once in my grave. Never think I am gone. I will wander freely in every cell of your brains. I will live in your neurons, age after age. I will return again and again in your memories, in your every prayer, as a bodiless, irresistible love. A love that knows no destruction!

At night’s end, I will become the morning star in the eastern sky and keep vigil over you. Find time sometimes to come to the verandah!

At life’s close, we shall meet again. Then we’ll live together for hundreds of years—I promise!

I offer you this life of mine, these dreams, this breath! Now I must go… I leave behind this promise to return…

Goodbye…

—

After reading the letter, the Police Officer pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his eyes and nose. There is no room for emotion beside duty. So he tries again and again to hide his tears. But he cannot—not at all! His eyes have become a fountain, streams pouring down his face without stopping. The Officer keeps his head bowed, teeth clenched against his lip, making a futile attempt to compose himself. For the first time in many days, he feels utterly helpless.

The other police officers watching him—their eyes too begin to water.

In this world, humans are such curious creatures. To save her family from possible infection, the girl herself had torn out a living, breathing life with her own hands! The power of love is a strange and wondrous power—before it, even one’s own life becomes insignificant.

The body is being loaded into the van.

The man who had sheltered his entire family like a banyan tree all these years—and yet at his final journey, a prohibition has been issued against even a gentle hand on his head! The man who had borne the weight of an entire family on his own shoulders all this time—now that he is a corpse, no one’s shoulder offers him even the smallest refuge.

All the world’s lights are going out, one by one. The sun sinks into the western corner, cloaking all the scattered rays of fading light within its own breast. Today the whole sky is full of birds! In crooked lines across the heavens, they return to their own nests.

At this very moment, somewhere in the world, a new bud is breaking into bloom. And somewhere else, someone is walking down a path lit by an infinite darkness…This journey is eternal, unchanging, inevitable!

Time passes, and time runs out.
The further ahead we walk, the more we turn back.
…There is only one path—arriving sooner or arriving later.