Page 100 of Mrs. Rathore

I picked up the envelope with trembling hands. It felt heavier than it should have, like it carried not just ink on paper, but breath, longing, and a piece of his soul. Rhea had once mentioned to me, in passing, that Aryan still wrote to Ira. Back then, I thought it was just an old habit, something harmless. But holding this letter now, I realized it was more than that. He was still writing to her. Still trying to keep some thread alive between them.

I should’ve felt something sharper, maybe jealousy. But strangely, all I felt was a quiet unhappiness... followed by relief. Relief that at least he was writing. At least there were signs that he was still okay, still surviving, still somewhere out there in those unforgiving mountains.

Still… should I open it?

Was it right?

What if he wrote something I didn’t want to read, something I wasn’t supposed to read? What if he bared his heart in ways that would only hurt me?

“No,” I muttered to myself, and with a sudden wave of guilt washing over me, I placed the envelope on the nightstand and turned to walk away.

But I paused. My hand froze on the doorframe.

I wanted to know. I needed to know. Was he okay? Was he safe? Was he eating properly? Sleeping? Breathing in that icy air with a full set of lungs?

It had been almost a month since I last heard from him. Rhea told me he was fine, but Rhea only repeated what their father said. And their father only said what the army told him. No one knew how Aryan was doing. Not really. But this letter might have the truth I needed to hear.

He would probably be angry if he ever found out I read it. I could already picture the disappointment in his eyes. After all, it wasn’t meant for me. It was meant for her. Ira. She was the one who had his trust, even if she didn’t want it anymore.

But then again, who cared?

I brushed away the surge of hesitation and snatched the envelope from the nightstand before I could talk myself out ofit again. My fingers slipped under the flap, and before I could change my mind, I was already reading.

Dear Ira,

I hope you’re doing well. I wasn’t sure if I should write to you, but tonight the cold feels heavier than usual, and for some reason, my thoughts kept circling back to people who once felt like home. You were one of them. You had always been one of them. As you can guess from my handwriting, my fingers are trembling due to the frosty cold.

I’m writing this from a small bunk, somewhere in the upper reaches of Jammu and Kashmir. I can’t tell you the name of the place since you’re already in the army and you’re well aware of our protocols. But I can tell it’s the kind of cold that doesn't just touch your skin but it settles deep in your bones and makes your teeth clatter. Every morning, I wake up to frost on the inside of the window, and every night I fall asleep listening to the wind battering the metal sheets above my head. Sometimes it feels like the mountains are holding their breath, like even nature is bracing for something and sometimes it feels like they’re just blowing us out of their place.

It’s not easy out here. The days are long and unpredictable, and the nights are even longer. There are times when all you hear is silence, and it’s not the peaceful kind of silence but it’s the kind that presses against your chest. Out here, we don’t talk much. We just… function. We eat when we can, sleep in turns, and keep our boots on the ground, always alert. The uniform carries a weight no one sees.

Lately, I’ve been missing home more than usual. I miss my homemade food. Even something as simple as warm chapatisstraight from the tawa feels like a luxury now. I miss the sound of people talking over one another at the dinner table, the smell of ginger in the kitchen. I miss Dadi and Rhea. I miss the comfort of familiar arguments with my mother. Funny how the things we used to complain about are the very things we crave when they’re gone.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe because once, you knew a part of me that others didn’t. Or maybe because it’s easier to write to someone who doesn’t expect anything in return. I’m not writing this to stir up old feelings or reopen any doors. I just wanted to talk to someone who might still care, in some quiet corner of her heart.

Anyway, I should stop before this letter turns into a novel. Take care of yourself, Ira. I hope life is treating you gently. And if you ever find yourself thinking of me just know that somewhere high up in these cold mountains, I’m thinking of you too, if only for a moment.

Warmly,

Aryan

I reread the letter slowly, this time clinging to every sentence like it was fragile. My heart ached for him. The way he conveyed his thoughts, his pain, his loneliness… it felt like he was right here in front of me, speaking gently across a space only I could fill.

I wish the letter were a novel. I would’ve read it through the entire night, line by line, chapter by chapter. I didn’t want to stop. I wanted more of his words, more of his voice, more of him.

But as the pages came to an end, one thing stood out with a cold sting: he didn't mention me. Not once.

And why would he? He had written it to Ira. It was meant for her, not for someone like me. Of course, he wouldn’t be thinking of me. I never fantasized about him sitting in his bunk, holding my photograph like they do in movies. No, Aryan didn’t do things like that. And I wasn’t someone to be remembered in the middle of a snowstorm. I was… incidental. Temporary.

I carefully folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope like it was something sacred. I placed it in the bottom drawer of my dresser, hiding it from the people, especially from Rhea. If she saw it, she’d start questioning everything. She’d make a fuss, ask why Ira left it, what Aryan truly meant. And I didn’t want Rhea to hear the harsh things Ira had said to me before she left.

I lay down on my bed, staring up at the ceiling as the cold night crept in. I couldn’t stop thinking about Aryan and what he must be doing at this very moment. Was he awake? Was he staring at the ceiling of that metallic bunk? Was he feeling the cold wind slide through the cracks, or was he out there on patrol among the vast white wilderness, risking everything in silence?

God, I didn’t want to take my mind there. I didn’t want to imagine the worst. I had to be positive. Yes, think good thoughts. I had to believe he was safe.

But what about his reply? He must have been waiting for it. Expecting it. He would look forward to Ira’s response. The one that would never come. She had decided he wasn’t worth a second thought, and that would crush him, whether he admitted it or not.

No. I didn’t want him to stop writing. I didn’t want his letters to vanish into silence.

---