Sumi screamed at the top of her lungs and slammed the phone down.

“Hey, Sumi, what’s wrong? Why are you so upset with your mom? I heard you shouting, and came out. I’ve never seen you speak to anyone like that,” Payal said, with a worried look.

“I have hinted myriad times that I’m not interested in marrying Suraj, but mom just won’t listen. She’s already fixed the engagement date! How could she do that without even asking me? I’m not going back home.” Sumi replied, anger evident in her voice.

"Calm down, Sumi," Payal said gently. "I agree, she should have talked to you before finalizing the date. But the way you spoke to her wasn’t right either. She’s your mother, and you know how much pain she’s endured to raise you all by herself."

“I know, Payal. I will write a letter,” Sumi replied, her voice now low.

“A letter? In this age of technology,” Payal asked, confused.

“Yes, she doesn’t have WhatsApp or email. We either talk over the phone or write letters. She loves them — writing and reading both. After reading, she carefully places each one in a box. It means a lot to her.” Sumi muttered.

They went to bed soon after dinner — Sumi had a train to catch at 11 a.m. the next morning. She was heading back to her hostel.

Sumi perched by the window, her knees pulled in close. She fished out her notepad and pen from her bag and stared at the blank page. It was white, untouched. The blue ink sat at the pen’s tip, ready to spill, but her fingers hesitated.

She cursed herself, “What’s the point in writing now? My sharp words already pierced her chest like a dagger. But…” tears pooled in her eyes.

Sumi tapped the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief before the tear could fall and stain her face.

She didn’t want the passenger sitting across her to notice, or worse — ask if she was okay.

“I must write. Keeping it buried won’t bring me any closer to closure,” Sumi whispered to herself and sat upright. 

The pen began to move smoothly — like butter melting in a warm pan. The ink spilt happily, unaware it was about to carry the weight of things left unsaid.

The moment the pen began with ‘I am sorry, Maa, for speaking to you so rudely,’ the ink seemed to slow — as if weighed down by guilt. Sumi wished she could erase those harsh words with a magical eraser — if only one existed. She sighed and continued.

“Maa, it isn’t your fault. But please try to understand that I don’t want to marry Suraj. I should have shared the truth with you. But I was scared of your response. I know Suraj is a wonderful person and that he truly loves me. But Maa, it’s not about Suraj. It’s about boys — I’ve never felt that kind of attraction toward any boy.” Before she could write the next line, the train passed through the tunnel…dark… Swallowing everything. The window turned into a black mirror, and for a moment, all she could see was her reflection. 

Sumi paused. The pen slipped from her fingers and rolled away. She switched on her mobile’s torch and scanned the floor. It was resting below the seat. Bending down, she picked it up, wiped the dust off, and held it firmly.

"Don’t you dare slip again. I’m not done yet," Sumi whispered and continued to write.

“Maa, I don’t know if this letter will find a place in your treasure box like the others — the ones you read over and over again with a smile. But I have to confess today. I love someone else. Her name is Meenu. She loves me, too. We share a room in the hostel. I know society doesn’t accept such relationships. I don’t care. But I would want you to accept our relationship, Maa. You’ve always stood by me and given me the best in life. Will you not support me in this decision, too?” Sumi wrote, each word carrying the weight of fear and hope. She then folded it and tucked it into her bag.

She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her.

With the breaking dawn, the train came to a halt at the station. Sumi got down and slipped the letter into the post box, hoping it would reach not just her mother’s hands, but her heart.