Day 1
Dear Jivu,
Wishing you a very happy Patrustav. How are you doing, champ? You are all of eighteen, an adult with distinct choices and tastes. How does it feel to be at a juncture of leaving your childhood behind and welcoming the fancy adulthood? I’m sure you are well equipped with ideas, dreams, and ambitions to carve out an exciting life pumped with adrenaline. Your mailbox must be full of letters from Indian universities. Yes, they are calling you. The way I want to.
There were times I wanted to call out to you. Play with you. Tell you that the tennis ball you were searching for one evening, after your eighth birthday, was hidden by your friend, Danish. It was his favorite, which was turning old, and he wanted a new one. He hid it in the bushes and then held you responsible. You, innocently, paid from your pocket. First time unlocking your account. I should have told you.
I feared I would tell you more than just that. I feared I would go on talking endlessly of all that my heart had held for those eight years. Watching you from the side street, I decided to let you luxuriate in the world of ignorance. Danish and you today are thick friends. Thereafter, he compensated for his folly by staying up late with you for your robotic exams. He took a stand for you, with the teacher, when you were not selected for the ISRO tour meant for the brightest boys in the school. I, too, forgave him for doing wrong to you.
But can I ever forgive myself? I deeply regret the wrong I have done to you.
Relax.
That is what I have to tell myself as I see you growing. Happy that you are doing well without me. Mukil and Tasvir are taking great care of you. You identify them as your parents. Hey and why shouldn’t you!? They are your parents. Working hard to raise an individual like you.
Jivu, here is something I want to say,
I love you.
I’m thankful for the concept of letters. Letters don’t bear faces, names if you don’t wish to mention them, identities if you wish to stay in the dark, and a past that cannot be destroyed nor be disclosed. Letters only carry the intentions and thoughts of a person. Well wishes, in my case.
I’m in no position to advise you, but can admit to my folly of keeping you away from me. Assure you that if anything goes wrong or against you, a hand will protect you. Walk along with you. Guiding you may not be my forte. Lost individuals rarely show others the right path. Yet, I hope you choose the right way to live your life.
Have you ever considered joining the Bharatiya Army? The question may appear abrupt, but I want your answer to be an obvious yes. If you were aware of your origin, you would have not followed Danish in the robotic class. What I want you to understand is that a soldier’s life is worth living. Worth dying. Rest is your decision.
Don’t search for a signature at the end of this letter. I will never be seen. Or maybe someday…
Yours loving,
Relax (in the knowledge that I’m a friend intending no harm).
𝐇𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞. 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫.
𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐯- 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫-𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐨𝐲, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬. 𝐎𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.
𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬, 𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫-𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬.
𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲, 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝟐𝟎𝟕𝟓, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐱 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞. 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐄𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐦. 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.
𝐁𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬. 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫. 𝐀𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐁𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬. 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐯.
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞’𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐧𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.
𝐈𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥.
𝐇𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰. 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬. 𝐒𝐨𝐨𝐧, 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬.
𝐓𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐩 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞. 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐥𝐧𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰. 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰.
𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒆?
𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬. 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞? 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰. 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦.
𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝, 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬. 𝐄𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫. 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. 𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰. 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬. 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐇𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐀𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟-𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.
Day 2
Mukil,
Man, how are you doing? Can I call you my friend? Which you have been. My saviour. My substitute. There, you get who is writing this letter to you. I will make no effort to hide my identity here. On a blank page, I will write what my heart yearns to say.
Thank you.
I mean it. Though all these years, I couldn’t bring to hold gratitude for you. I envied you for your strength and resilience. I blamed the lady luck for not shining on me enough and bestowing you with a glorious life. I hated to see you hold Jivu, love him, feel his breath on your face, and bury his face in your chest.
The day he lost the tennis ball and rushed into your arms to confess, I wanted to peel him off your comforting hug. Pull him out of the delusion that you are more important to him than me.
But again, my limbs went weak as I saw her run towards the two of you. She placed her hand on your shoulder and squeezed it. You looked deep into her eyes and her thin lips were set in a curve. Jivu’s crying had stopped. My desire to shatter your happiness vanished. Innumerable incidents, and I have tried to gather the courage to claim my rights. Every time, even before my shadow could reach your home, my legs gave away. Bloody legs!! Indecisive, crippled structures.
I don’t think you know much about me. In the first place, why should you? Isn’t it enough to fill in my place and fulfil my responsibilities? I was not running away from my commitment. The wedding was about to happen. She had fixed the date and venue. We had been to the designer to get our outfits done. Everything, almost everything, was done. Alas! I had forgotten that men in uniform can’t plan their stuff. It is the fate of the country that rules the roost. Unrest erupted in the country. Soldiers marched out on the battlefields. Sons left their mothers. Husbands their wives. Fathers their children. And I left her.
Not without a promise, though, of returning. I returned, but how?
Well, all of it doesn’t matter now. What matters is for you to know I’m here. In the weakest of my moments, my legs are suddenly pumped with energy and they want to walk into your home. The heart wants to claim back what was rightfully mine.
Don’t worry, a soldier is never a traitor. I won’t break your home. My letter is just to let you know, bro, you are doing a fantastic job! But will you allow me to meet Jivu once? Just once, as his father.
Yours
Abheer.
𝐇𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐢𝐧. 𝐀 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, ‘𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮.’ 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝? 𝐎𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞. 𝐍𝐨. 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐥. 𝐇𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐉𝐡𝐚𝐣 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐌𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐥.
𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞. 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰, 𝐡𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐨, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫. Day 3
Dearest Vir Tasvir,
Sorry for the love name. It must have brought back so many memories. A time that stays captured in the folds of the past. Yet, I can feel it just like yesterday. The years that separated us seem to not exist and my Vir stands in front of me.
Vir, my love, I can’t come to call you anything but this. A soldier’s fiancee can be nothing but Vir. The world bows down to the soldier and his sacrifice, but when he breathes his last, he thinks of the sacrifice his mother and wife have made. All his life, he lives in a frenzy of patriotism. In the end, he leaves with endless love for his love.
That was the end I had thought for myself. Destiny had unique plans. I survived the war, but it left me broken. While returning from the battlefield, all I thought was of our future. Our child, for whom we were rushing with the wedding. In my heart, I knew you must have delivered our child. No one would question you. After all, you were giving birth to another soldier.
The journey from a foreign land to Bharat was a long one. Turbulent, to be specific. With happiness, sneaked in a fear of uncertainty. What guarantee that another war won’t break out? A soldier has to be on guard. On his toes to fight back. I lacked the nerve to leave you once again. To tell you, Vir, my country comes first. It is only in the last moments will you be my priority.
I just couldn’t say this to you again. That’s when I decided to fake my death. Let you believe that your restless Abheer was resting in peace. I wish I could.
The day you moved to my city, and I saw you with Jivu, I couldn’t hold myself. I couldn’t face you, nor could I keep myself away from Jivu.
How did I know he was my son?
How could I miss my reflection, Tasvir?
The three of you walking in the park. Jivu, swinging in between the two of you. His firm hold on Mukil’s finger which later would be encompassed in Mukil’s sturdy palms. The sight made me uncomfortable. I was entitled to protect, love, and nurture Jivu. Not him.
Patrutsav entangled our fates. A desire for our futures to collide grew relentlessly in me. Yet, the fear, shame, embarrassment, and guilt never left. After years of procrastination, today I feel I can talk to you. Watching Jivu grow, I realize the shortcomings of time. If not now, then never will I be able to address to my son as mine.
He is a soldier’s offspring, I must tell him. The robotic courses will do him no good. It will kill more humans while we create more technology. He is Vir and Abheer’s son. He must know! He must know, Vir.
You might find my excuse for meeting him funny. Invalid to a large extent. Be it so. You would ask why after so many years, I have decided to adorn the robes of a father. You are justified. But love sees no logic and reasoning. Suddenly, it decides to cross the boundaries of right or wrong. It enjoys being wrong and selfish.
I want my Jivu back. Have you ever told him about me? I understand, after marrying Mukil, you would have crushed my existence even in your dreams, but Vir, he is my son and it is his right to know who his father is. Nothing doing, I’m going to tell him. As you receive my letter, so will he.
You may continue to stay with Mukil, but Jivu will be united with his father.
Yours determinedly,
Abheer
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐀 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐢𝐥. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐯𝐢𝐫’𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬, 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮’𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧.
𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞. 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮’𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨? 𝐀 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞. 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝. 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐧! 𝐆𝐨 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐍𝐨 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫.
Dearest Papa,
𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭.
How is the view from above? Must be fairly good. If you are watching me, then just send a crackle in the sky. That is what Mumma believes. She says whenever a cloud flits passes our window; you are riding in your Ranger. I know you are not. I’m now eighteen and fairytales have stopped enchanting me. Yet, I feel you are near me. Every moment. Every second of my life.
That’s how Mumma and Dadda have made me feel. For an eight-year-old, the concept of having two fathers was fascinating. For an eighteen-year-old…well, nothing has changed except that fascination is topped with pride. Pride of being a soldier’s son who sacrificed his life for the country. Pride for my Dadda, who never tried to be my father. It came naturally to him. Dadda says very few are lucky to have two guiding angels in their life.
When I lost Danish’s tennis ball, Dadda comforted me, saying, Pappa will find it for you. You didn’t. Yet, in that moment and all my life, whatever miracles happened, I owed it to you. Yes, you are my father up in heaven.
My friends ask me whether I imagine how my life would be if you were around. Frankly speaking, no I don’t. Mumma and Dadda keep telling you what you would have done in a particular situation. You know what, the best part is I get three gifts from Mumma and Dadda on my birthday every year. One, of course, is what you would gift me. Mumma exactly knows what to buy on your behalf. In me, she sees you. Sometimes she is teary-eyed when glancing out of the window. Dadda and, me, we just watch her and let her be. With a few moments of quietude, she comes out all cheerful and happy.
This year on my 18th birthday, at midnight, she left your uniform near my bedside. Even years later, the olive green was as dark as when it was first worn by you. I can only assume. I had on multiple occasions seen her bring out the uniform from her closet, wash it, iron it, and then place it back. She never allowed me to fiddle with it. Yet, when the time came, she handed it to me. Asking me to follow in your footsteps.
Robotics is my first love. But Mumma says her first love never left her, even after she married Dadda. I know what she means. Pappa, here I come to make you proud.
Your dutiful son,
Jivu.
𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞. 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲.
Day 4
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞’𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠. 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐬 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩.
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫.
𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐦, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐯𝐢𝐫’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝. 𝐀 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. 𝐀 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬, 𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐀 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞.
‘𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞?’ 𝐇𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝. 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐦𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦. 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐯𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.
‘𝐈’𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞!’ 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐩𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐯𝐢𝐫, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.
𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞- 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐥.
𝐀𝐛𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐦 𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭. 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝. 𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮’𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡. 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐯 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐉𝐢𝐯𝐮’𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐀 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬.
𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞, 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭.
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