Page 101 of Mrs. Rathore

So… I would reply.

Ira wouldn’t. But I could. I knew it sounded ridiculous. Crazy, even. But if this was my one last mistake, then maybe it was a mistake worth making.

He needed someone to write back. And if Ira weren’t that person, I would.

I might regret this later. He might find out. She might tell him. But until then… I would play my part carefully and quietly.

Because sometimes, love isn’t about claiming someone. Sometimes, it’s just about keeping their hope alive.

_______

Chapter 39

AVNI

A smile played on my lips as I wrote, wondering how Aryan would react to this letter. Would he feel a connection to Ira, even though she wasn't the one writing it? Or would he know it was from me? I really didn't want him to find out. But this secret wouldn't last long, especially once Ira told him she had rejected his original letter. I pushed those thoughts away and focused on writing.

Dear Aryan,

Your letter was a surprise, but a nice one. Life has been so busy lately that I'd forgotten how peaceful old memories can be. Seeing your handwriting again made me stop, and for a moment, it felt like time stopped too.

Thank you for writing. I read your letter twice: first quickly, then slowly, enjoying every word.

What you're going through sounds tough, Aryan. I don't have the right words, but I truly felt how heavy your burden is. I can't imagine sleeping in the cold every night, eating quick meals, and living with constant uncertainty. You've always been strong, but this is something deeper: it's giving up comfort, time, warmth, and parts of your youth.

When you mentioned missing home: the food, the noise, your family. I smiled and felt a little sad. I remember how picky you were about your food, always complaining if the dal wasn'texactly like your mom made it. Some things never change, I guess.

I'm truly glad you wrote to me, Aryan. Not because it changes anything between us, but because it reminded me that people we've cared about never truly leave us. They live inside us in quiet, unexpected ways. Hearing from you was like finding an old photo tucked away in a forgotten book.

I'm doing okay. Life is busy, sometimes messy, sometimes kind. I'm becoming someone I'm learning to like. I hope you're finding pieces of yourself too, even in the cold and chaos. And when you get a break, I truly hope you go home, and I am looking forward to meeting you.

Please take care of yourself, Aryan. Wherever you are, whether you are on patrol, in your bunk, or watching the snow, I hope you're warm, safe, and carrying a little less of that heavy weight you described.

With respect, and a quiet kind of affection, Ira

_______

It had been over two months since I sent Aryan that letter, but I hadn't received a reply. He was smart; he must have realized the letter he got wasn't from his ex-girlfriend, so he stopped writing.

In the last three months, he had called only four times. The calls were quick and about facts, almost like official updates. He said he was doing great and enjoying the snowfall. But his letter had told me a different story altogether: the frosty cold, the frozen food, the long silences in the middle of nowhere. That version ofAryan, the one who was honest, vulnerable, and quietly broken, lived only on that sheet of paper he had sent.

I hated thinking about him, especially since he never mentioned me. Not even once in four calls or the letter as though I didn't exist, as if I were never part of his life. But the truth was: I was. I was still his wife.

Maybe just legally, maybe not in his heart. But those vows hadn't disappeared yet.

I talked to my lawyer, and he had asked me to wait six months before filing for divorce. He said it was too soon. It needed time to think, for reality to set in. I had to wait one more month before I could talk to him again, and hopefully, this time, he would agree with my proposal. I was tired of waiting. Waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be free.

Pushing those thoughts away, I looked at Rhea, who was tying her dupatta again, getting ready for her dance practice.

The porch glowed in the warm light of the setting sun. The sky was a mix of burnt orange and soft purple, and the air was heavy with the smell of the coming evening. Gulmohar leaves rustled softly in the wind, falling like red confetti and landing on the tiled floor. From the garden, I caught the faint smell of jasmine, mixing perfectly with the comforting smell of dinner being cooked inside. It was mustard seeds crackling, garlic roasting, the smell of lentils bubbling away.

I stood barefoot, the tiles cool under my feet. My dupatta was tied tightly at my waist, a habit from years of dancing. Even without my ghungroos, I felt strong and balanced. The bottom of my white anarkali fluttered gently in the breeze as I liftedmy arms into position. My leg trembled slightly when I held the pose. It still did that sometimes.

My legs had almost recovered after the accident, which was five months ago now. But there were still signs of weakness left behind, moments when they failed me, trembled under pressure, or stung with sharp pain. I had learned to dance with them anyway.

Rhea, wearing a faded sky-blue kurta and soft leggings, stood across from me. She was chewing her lower lip, looking nervously at my pose as if she had already given up.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

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