I took a sharp left and parked my Swift Dzire in the spot between the Hyundai i10 on the left and a food cart on the right. The color of my Magma Grey Swift contrasted with the plain white Suzuki Omni standing in front of me, right outside Ali’s shop. My Swift Dzire had been wobbling for some time and needed repairs. As has been the case for more than 15 years, Ali has been the designated doctor for all my car-related problems and my go-to mechanic.

I turned off the ignition and took out the car keys. The RJ on the radio suddenly went quiet. Though I could not see him, his voice exuberated the kind of happiness that one needs on a Sunday morning that it was. The sudden silence felt heavy, as if the radio kept me happy. I apologized to the RJ under my breath and got out of the car to look for Ali.

“Is Ali there?” I asked Azhar, Ali’s help.

“He has gone to his native place.” He replied.

“Ok. Could you check my car, please, it has been wobbling for some time?” I rocked my hands to indicate wobbliness to him.

“Let me check. Why don’t you have a seat in the waiting room till then.”.

I felt a little thirsty when Azhar drove my car to the workshop. It was difficult to say whether it was the July Delhi heat or the anxiety of separation from my car. Having been to the garage multiple times, I knew where the water cooler was. My feet moved towards the waiting lounge by muscle memory itself.

The waiting lounge was the same as it has been for the past 15 years except for two things. The faded colors and two men’s presence on the room’s opposite walls. The room was a 15 x 15 room with cream-colored walls. The wall adjacent to the door had a huge glass window through which one could see the mechanic work his magic on your beloved car. My beloved was masted high on the car lift with Azhar checking the suspension system. In between the door and the window was the water cooler. The wall opposite the door had a 32-inch Toshiba TV with the latest India vs England match. Rohit Sharma was one run short of a century. Along the walls on either side of the door, there were 7 chairs, on each side with a table in the center and some sports magazines. The two gentlemen I had never seen before sat on chairs opposite each other, sipping coffee.

I took out a paper cup from the pile of paper cups kept next to the water cooler and gulped enough water to quench my thirst and probably make up for the anxiety of having my car in somebody else’s hands. I looked at my car for the last time and sat two seats away from the man on the right. I looked around the room again, the gentlemen busy sipping their tea and looking at their phones.

As much as I love cars, I hate phones in equal measure. Don’t get me wrong, they are a boon to our society, but they have invaded our space and minds so much that we have lost touch with ourselves. We as a human race cannot sit in silence without looking at a screen, especially on phones. I prefer conversations instead. Humans are meant to talk to each other, it does not matter whether they are strangers or someone you know. Talking to people and listening to their stories makes me happy. The waiting room is a perfect place to begin such a conversation. You have nothing else to do except waiting. You might as well create memories while your beloved car is getting its treatment.

So, when I saw the two gentlemen glued to their phones, I picked up one of the magazines to read. I flipped pages and saw images of cricketers, footballers, and a few other sportspeople. But I could not get myself to read even a single line in that magazine. I finished looking at one magazine and went for the other. After about 5 minutes of flipping through all the magazines, bored, I threw the last one on the table. It landed on the table with a loud thud, to my surprise and the surprise of all the others in the room. All 3 of us were startled. To my benefit, distracted by the loud noise, the gentlemen sitting in the room looked up and noticed my presence. I raised my hands in the air and rendered my apologies to both. The man in front of me smiled as if to tell me it was OK. He stood up and left the waiting room. The man on the right, however, kept looking at me.

“Hello, uncle.” I spoke to break his constant stare. It was making me a little conscious about myself.

“Hello, Hello.” He said, a little startled as if he just woke up from deep sleep.

“Sorry, beta, I thought I knew you from somewhere. That is why I was trying to remember, from where? I did not mean to stare.” He said with an apologetic smile.

I smiled back, happy that I finally get to talk.

The gentleman I was speaking to was about 70-something years old. He wore a cream-colored shirt with black checks on it. The shirt was neatly tucked into a pair of khaki cargo pants. He matched those clothes with black formal shoes, a black belt, and a black turban. The Sikh gentleman had an athletic frame that was reminiscent of his fit past. His high cheekbones complimented the strong jawline and the pointy nose. The thick mustache and beard hid the fullness of his lips yet brought out the brown eyes. His eyes were the first to catch my attention. They were a content pair of eyes yet in search of something.

“It’s OK, uncle. I don’t think we have ever met; you must be confusing me with someone else.” I responded to him.

“Though I must say, ” I continued, you are very fit. Fitter than a lot of people my age as well. Were you a sportsperson?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” He leaned his head back and let out a hearty and boisterous laugh.

“Thank you for the compliment, beta. And no, I was not a sports person but an army man. I retired as a captain. So, I have all the time in the world to do what I want to. And as I had learned in the army, keeping myself healthy and fit has always been my number one priority in life. Why else do you think event at 81 I can go for a jog and stay active.”

“81!!! Woah. You are 81 years old. I thought you are in your late 60s or early 70s. Wow, you sure know how to keep yourself fit.” I could not believe what he had just told me. He let out the same tilt-your-head-back-and-laugh-out-loud kind of laugh. His laugh had magic to it. It spread positivity around. It seemed as if he opened his mouth not to laugh but to sprinkle his inner positivity. It spread to me too. I laughed timidly along with him.

“Thank you again for the compliment, young man. What’s your name?” He asked me, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes and letting his laughter subside down.

“My name is Roshan, uncle. What is yours!”

“Retired Capt. Ranjeet Randhawa. I worked with the Punjab regiment.” He said with a sense of pride. Unbeknown to him, his body firmed. As if it was trying to show me its last 60 years’ journey. From the gruesome training at IMA as a gentleman cadet where sleep was a luxury and rest was hailed as an enemy, to the battles for the country where killing the enemy with your bare hands was needed not to win the war but to survive.

I smiled and gave him a salute. He smiled back and reciprocated with a hand to his forehead.

“Have you ever been to the battlefield, Ranjeet uncle?”

“Yes. The war of 1965. Those 17 days were the darkest days of my life.” He stood up and started walking towards the coffee machine.

“You want some coffee?” He asked.

“Oh, uncle, let me get it for you.” I tried to stand up and get some coffee for the both of us

“Please, beta. If I can drive from my house to this place, I can surely get you a cup of coffee from a vending machine.” He said, signaling me to sit.

He poured two cups of coffee and walked back. He gave one cup to me, and we both sipped the first sip of our coffee together simultaneously.

“Did you get to fight?”

“You ask too many questions, Roshan. I will answer it, but you must tell me about yourself first. What do you do?” He asked, drinking another sip of coffee from his cup.

I could only let out an ‘Oh!’. I was a little shocked by the conversation’s change of spotlight.

“Umm. I am a student uncle. I study at Unity College. I am doing History Honors. My dad has a travel agency. My mom is a homemaker, and I have a sister who does nothing else except irritating me.”

He laughed again.

“You like what you study?”

“Oh yes, uncle. I love to read how humans have evolved. I love to read about how the past shaped the present. I love reading about kings and civilizations and how people were ready to war over trivial things. I love reading in general.” I had an ear-to-ear smile on my face.

“Is it?” He further enquired.

“Yes. Sometimes my girlfriend and I visit the History Museum and see how people from different times lived.” I answered with a twinkle in my eyes, remembering all the happy memories this conversation had brought back.

“That is interesting. Kids your age these days go out to watch movies, eat in restaurants, drink in pubs, or just visit malls. Going out to visit the history museum is something unique. When I was your age, we had to hand over chits to ask someone to meet.” The words brought out old memories from his youth which were still fresh as if they happened yesterday. For a moment, he was transported to his youth. Like the old man, the memories seemed interesting, though I did not know what they were about. But I was about to find out.

“You must be having a lot of girlfriends when you were young. Isn’t it?” I poked with a question bringing him back to the present.

“Well, have you ever heard of the phrase roadside Romeos?” He asked with a little chuckle.

“No, uncle.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have. They stopped existing the moment phones took over as a primary communication medium. When I was young, the dating scene was not as easy as it is now. Men and women had limited opportunities to meet. It was mostly school, college, tuition, workplace, a friend of a friend, a relative of a friend, wedding function, etc. You get the idea. You had to be physically present in the same location as that person to be able to ask her out. For those who did not have work and pretty much spent their entire days loitering around, a lot of such opportunities were unavailable. I was one of them. So, I would stand at the bus stop with my friends and try to ask out any good-looking girl, bypassing my number on a chit to her. These men, who would try to find their Juliet on the roadside, were called roadside Romeos.” He paused to drink his last sip of coffee.

Before I could ask my next question, the door had opened. Azhar had come looking for both of us. “Uncle, your car will take another 45 minutes. Roshan bhaiya, should I also change the air filter in your car? I think the A/C is not working properly?”

“Ok” and “Go ahead” were our replies in unison. I guess we were both eager for Azhar to leave the room so we could continue our conversation. But before he could leave, the second man who had gone out came back and took his earlier position. We both acknowledged him with a smile and turned toward each other to continue what we had started.

“Did you find girlfriends like that? We could never think of doing it. I mean, we have an equivalent of the same in today’s world, sending DMs to strangers online. But, talking to them in the real world, that got to take a lot of courage.” I could not have been in more awe of this person.

He laughed again and said, “A very few lucky men, or boys, found their mate. I wasn’t one of the lucky ones.”

“Then?”

“Mine was an arranged marriage, and I met my wife through one of the gurudwara services my mother had subscribed to. Like the Shaadi.com of today.”

“I know what arranged marriage is, uncle.” It was my time to laugh

“OK. OK”

“The first time I saw her, she was sitting in the gurudwara hall. Wearing a baby pink, churidar salwar kameez with a dark pink chunni. Her body slouched and leaned against the wall, legs curled, head bent down, and fingers fidgeting with each other. Her 5 feet 1-inch frame was rolled up so tightly it seemed like she was trying to be invisible. Had my mom not drawn my attention to her, I would have missed her presence there. The families sat opposite each other, and our fathers started talking to each other. For almost half an hour, the conversation jumped from greetings to introductions, to my job, to my salary, to my education, to our house, to her education, to her ability to handle the household chores when finally, we were asked to talk to each other for 15 minutes, alone. We were asked, rather encouraged, by our parents to go and sit a small distance from where everyone else was sitting. I had been desperately looking for opportunities to get one glimpse of her face, but not for a second did she raise her head. It was only when her father asked her to accompany me to talk to me that that bundled girl uncurled herself, raised her head to look at her father, and indicated agreement with a nod. She looked at me for the first time at that moment, and her eyes met mine.” Ranjeet uncle explained.

“Woahhh!!!” I could not control the excitement within me and start slowly clapping at the prospect of the beginning of a great love story.

Ranjeet uncle looked at me and smiled, and continued.

“At that moment when my eyes met hers, I knew I was in love. I could not look anywhere apart from her big black eyes. She had again bent her head down when I came out of the trance. I heard her father ask both of us to go and talk. I walked hesitatingly while she was pushed by her sister to take the first step. Once we reached a comfortable distance from our family, where I thought they could not hear us, I asked her, ‘Do you not want to get married?’.  She was astonished and looked at me as if she had seen a ghost.

‘I do.’ she said. ‘I mean, I do want to get married.’

‘Then why do you have your head bent down? Do you not want to know or at least see the person you are meeting?’

This time around, she looked at me as if I had touched a nerve.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean is we are about to have a conversation about spending the rest of our 60 years with each other, yet you are not ready to lift your head and look at me for more than 5 seconds. I am OK marrying someone shy. But I am not OK marrying someone who cannot take her own decisions.’  I took a deep breath after I completed this sentence.

‘Mr. Randhawa, I don’t think you understand me completely or at all. I had my head bent not because I was being forced into this marriage, but because as a woman, I am expected to behave a certain way.’ She retorted with anger so strong that it could burn your flesh.

‘I do not expect you to behave like that. I want you to be you. We have gotten only 15 minutes for us to decide whether we want to get married or not. I do not want to spend that time shying away. I want BOTH of us to utilize that time to assess each other and understand whether we want to get married or not.’ I put my point across.

‘OK. Mr. Randhawa, if you want us to have a conversation like that, that is what you will get. Tell me, how much money do you make in a year?’ She asked resiliently.

I was taken aback by the abruptness of the change in her demeanor. Before I could gather my thoughts and answer her questions, she fired another at me.

‘OK. So, you are not sure about your salary. I work as an English teacher in primary school and would like to continue doing that. Do you have an issue with that?’

‘Ummm….issue…. what?’ I blurted, still unsure about what was happening to me. My mind was still unable to comprehend how this seemingly meek and timid human being has turned into a bold and forthcoming fireball.

‘So, you have no opinion on that as well. Great. How many children would you want after marriage?’ She moved on to the next rapid-fire question.

‘I have heard that you are in the military, have you ever been in a battle? Are you caring by nature? Do you get angry? If so, how often? Would you buy me gifts after marriage? Would you take me out to travel?’ This time she did not wait for me to answer while she spewed one question after the other. When she finished, there was a long silence between the two of us.

‘I can take all my life decisions independently, Mr. Randhawa, but I guess you need clarity on what you want out of this marriage.’ She finally broke the silence. She stood there in front of me with an aura of a mother who had just scolded her young child for doing something out of line, and now, she is watching the child cry. One part of her, soft and gentle, wants to hold the child against her bosom and shower him with all her love, while the other part, hard and strict, wants to teach the child that he had crossed a line. While the child, I, stood there like a confused neanderthal man who had just seen fire for the first time in his life.

‘Hope you guys had a lot of time to talk.’ My mother walked in on us to save the day for me. And I once again saw Harnoor Kaur, that young woman standing in front of me, metamorphose into the shy and coy girl she had been all along.

We walked back to where our families were standing. I could see my father and mother say goodbye to Harnoor’s family. We genuflected in front of Shree Guru Granth Sahib Ji. We exited the gurudwara and took the bus to our home. We sat in the living room for God knows how long when our phone rang. My mother picked up the receiver, spoke on the phone, and kept the receiver down. Then she came running towards me and kissed my cheeks and hugged me. So did my father, with a huge smile on his face. My sister simply shook my hands. Everybody around me was celebrating while I was mentally stuck at that moment in the gurdwara, where I had been schooled by a perfect amalgamation of fire and water, the soft and the stern, the yin & yang.

‘Ranjeet, where are you lost.’ My father jolted me out of my trance. ‘They have said yes. Congratulations beta. I am so happy for you. Harnoor is a great girl, and so is her family.’

‘What? What are you talking about, papaji?’ I asked, very, very confused.

‘Beta, Harnoor, she said yes.’ My father replied.

They have agreed to the marriage? Does that mean that she has agreed too? Or was she forced by her family to marry me? The way our conversation went today, I was sure she would never agree to marry me. If that is the case, did SHE say yes? I do not want to get married to someone who was forced to marry me. I can’t live like that. What if I become a grumpy sad man who does not want to love his wife? All these questions were swirling in my mind. I had to have the answers to all of them. So, I decided to do something about it.

‘Papaji, I need to go out and tell Harpal about this.’ I made an excuse to get away from that place & went straight to the gurudwara where we had met. I asked granthi Ji at the gurudwara about Harnoor’s address, and after a lot of pleading and begging, he finally gave in.

Next, I rang the bell to Harnoor’s house. To my luck, it was Harnoor who answered the door. And this time, it was her turn to be surprised.

‘You, here? How did you get the address?’ She asked, coming out of the house and closing the door behind her.

‘Did you say yes?’ I went straight to the point, ignoring her questions.

‘What do you mean? How did you get the address Ranjeet?’ She pressed on.

‘I mean, did you say yes to our marriage?’

‘Of course, I said yes to our marriage why else would you think my father would have called your father? Why are you here, Ranjeet? It is not right.’ I could see her frightened face as she said those words.

‘Why did you say yes? What did you see in me?’ I was not going back before I had all my answers.

‘Ranjeet, go, please. I beg you.’ She folded her hands.

‘Answer me first, and then I promise I will leave.’

‘Well, I said yes because I know I can bully you whenever I want.’ The frown on her face turned to a smile that changed into laughter. Jokingly she turned around, opened the door, and went inside. Just before she was about to close the door, she said, ‘Now go and meet me tomorrow at the public library.’”

“What??? I cannot believe she said that.” I was standing with hands on my forehead and shaking my head in disbelief. “She said that Ranjeet uncle?” I confirmed.

“Yeah, she said that.” Ranjeet uncle confirmed.

“What happened next?” I was hooked on the story.

“The marriage was planned within one month from that date. So, I met her at the public library, as she had said. The next day I went to the cinema with her. The day after, I took her out for a bike ride. And we went on, umm what do you guys call that these days, umm, date. Yeah. I went on a lot of dates with her. Till the time I got married to her.” Ranjeet uncle concluded and stood up to go and check his car.

“Where are you going?” I asked Ranjeet uncle.

“To see what is the status of my car. I do have to get back; you do realize that.”

“Yeah” I said depressingly. “But uncle, I have one last question that I need to ask you. Please answer that before you go.”

“Alright, but for that, we need to get one more cup of coffee. Mine is empty.” He got up and got both of us a cup of coffee and sat down.

“Now, what was your question?” He asked me, sipping a cup of coffee.

“It is about the 1965 war. You said it was the darkest time of your life. Can you tell me why?” I asked a little hesitatingly.

“You really want to know, Roshan? War is never interesting, and neither is it happy. There is death, and it is all about destruction.” Ranjeet uncle was grim this time.

“Yes, uncle, I do want to know. I have heard so many stories about how people have sacrificed their lives in the line of duty, but I have never met someone who had been a part of the war. I want to know what happens in a war. How does the life of army men change when war is declared?

“OK. If you say so. It all started about a week after our marriage. There had been news about an imminent war even before the marriage. But we did not think that Pakistan would attack so soon. One day when the doorbell rang, and I opened the door, my regiment orderly was standing in front of me. I knew what that meant, even without him handing over the official order to return to base. I asked him to wait and allow me time to pack my bag. I offered him tea and snacks, but he insisted on waiting for me in his jeep. I knew then that things were serious. I closed the door and walked back to my room, where Harnoor asked me about the doorbell.

‘Harnoor, remember, at the Gurudwara, you had asked me whether I had been in a battle before and how I could not answer you. Well, now I can say that I have been.’ I replied.”

“What happened next?” I asked Ranjeet uncle.

“There was a lot of crying, of course. I cried, she cried, my mother cried, my father cried, and so did my sister. It could have been the last time my family would have seen me. I hugged everyone, kissed my wife, and bid goodbye to the family, promising them I would be back soon.

During our journey back to the camp, the orderly filled me up on what was happening. The war had not started, but our military had credible information that the Pakistanis would attack soon. Ready to die for my motherland, I kept thinking about Harnoor throughout the journey. It was then that I decided to call back home every day.

The scene at the front was exactly how anyone would imagine it to be. It was all hands on deck. All leaves were canceled, and we readied ourselves for a full-blown war. As is the protocol, we were briefed about the situation on our day of arrival and were presented with a set of protocols to follow. To my dismay, as part of the protocol, telephonic communication from the outside world had been banned during the duration of the war. Instead, we were asked to write letters if we wanted to communicate with someone. This was done to ensure that the morals of the troops remain high and that the military could control what is being sent out. You see, Roshan, all the letters going out and coming in were scrutinized. Despite that knowledge, I decided to write every day.

I wrote my first letter about 5 days after I got there. The first few days went in a jiffy preparing for war. The night of the 6th-day post arrival gave me time to rest. Despite the body ache and lack of sleep, I wrote to Harnoor before going to sleep.

Dear Harnoor,

I have been called to the base like this many times but never have I felt as if I have left some part of mine back home. For the first time, I want to be somewhere else rather than the base, I want to be with you. Throughout the day, I keep thinking about you nothing interests me anymore. They have also nicknamed me “Happy Singh” because apparently, they say that I keep smiling throughout the day. I can’t help it; you are in my thoughts 24/7, and it always brings a smile to my face. I am all OK here, and the war hasn’t started yet. Even if it does, I promise to be back soon.

I love you.

Yours and Yours Only

Ranjeet Randhawa

The next morning, I dropped the letter in the letterbox outside the communication room. I did not get any response for a couple of days, but then one day, the orderly on duty came waving a letter at me.

‘Sir, this letter is for you.’

I left whatever it is that I was doing, took the letter from the orderly, and ran back to my barrack. Once I lay on my bed, I tore open the envelope with Harnoor’s name written. The letter was short.

Dearest Ranjeet,

You are a joker. You can make me laugh even through your letters. I think of you all the time. Ma and Papaji are doing great. They have sent their wishes. We all pray for you daily and all the other soldiers with you. I hope I know that you will come home soon.

I love you from the deepest corners of my heart.

Yours and Yours Only

Harnoor Kaur

I read the letter over and over again till it started to tear in the middle. I could imagine Harnoor writing the letter. However, her writing was off. Though I did not care. I had received a letter from my beloved. That night I decided to write to Harnoor again.

Dearest Harnoor,

Is your hand injured? Your writing seems to be a little off. I was so happy to receive the letter from you that I read it repeatedly until it started to tear off. It felt like you were sitting next to me and speaking to me. Your hands held the same paper which I was holding in my hands. I kept feeling the paper. I could feel your hands through the paper. I promise I would be back soon.

I love you, Harnoor.

Yours & Yours Only

Ranjeet Randhawa

Just like before, I dropped the letter in the letter box. Again within a couple of days, the same orderly came to me with a letter in his hand.

Dearest Ranjeet,

Yes, I cut my finger while cooking the other day and therefore my handwriting is a bit off, today I am writing a short letter as my mother and father are visiting.

I will see you soon, my love. I love you.

Yours & Yours Only

Harnoor Kaur

This time around, I slept with the letter in my hands. I woke up with a lot of commotion around me. It was morning, and we had news that Pakistanis had arrived at the border with their force. The war had begun, and everyone was running to prepare for battle. I folded the letter and kept it with the previous one in my suitcase.

The war was deadly. There was the loss of life on both ends. Death and injury surrounded. Opened skulls. Blown up hands and legs. Cut fingers. The situation was grave. I lost many friends from my battalion. The only hope during that dreadful time was my time spent writing to Harnoor daily. I wrote to her every day during the war and surprisingly got a reply the next day.

Once during those 17 days of the war, I asked the orderly while he was delivering the letter to me.

“How do the letters reach us so quickly?”

‘Sir, I am just a messenger. The processing is handled by Kaptaan Saab.’ The orderly replied.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

‘Gurbaksh Singh, sir.’ He replied with a tired smile on his face.

‘Thank you, Gurbaksh.’ I hugged him.

He smiled and left.

It was not just me but many other soldiers who were getting letters delivered to them the next day. We were all perplexed, but our focus at the point was fighting for our motherland.

The war ended with India’s victory, and we all were given leaves for a month. Happily, with all the letters in my hand, I reached home and rang the bell. My family was ecstatic to see me. My wife and mother had tears in their eyes, and my father & my sister could not stop smiling from ear to ear. It was almost evening when I reached home, so I sat down with the family and spoke to them about the war and how we eventually won. Once the initial excitement of my arrival had worn off, we decided to retire for the day. In our room, as soon as Harnoor closed the door of our room, I grabbed Harnoor by the waist and hugged her from behind. I rested my head on her shoulder and spoke to her softly.

‘ Thank you for keeping me company during those hard times.’

She laughed a little and said, ‘ What do you mean?’

‘I meant, thank you for writing those letters. It kept me alive and hopeful in the face of death.’

This she laughed with bewilderment.

‘Letters?’ she said, ‘Which letters.’

‘The letters that you wrote to me. How can you forget? Stop pranking me.’ I kissed her cheeks this time., tightening my grip around her waist.

‘I did not write any letters, Ranjeet.’ She turned around to face me. And her face told me that she was not joking.

‘What do you mean, you did not write? How do you explain these if you did not write those letters?’ I took out the letters from my bag on the bed and showed her all the letters. She started opening the letters and read all of them one by one. When she finished reading the last letter, she folded it and looked at me with all the bewilderment her face could express.

‘Ranjeet, I did not write these letters. This is not even my handwriting.’ She tried explaining.

‘Yeah, I had asked you the same thing in my second letter, and you wrote back saying that you had an injury on your fingers because of which your handwriting was different. Open that letter again and read it for yourself.’

‘Ranjeet, you are not listening to what I am saying. I have not gotten any letters from you, nor have I written any letters. Plus, I have not had any injury on my finger in the past 8 months. You can ask your mother.’ Exasperated, she tried to explain, and this time I believed her.

But if she did not write those letters, then who would have? Was it a prank that somebody played on me? But it cannot be a prank on all the soldiers simultaneously? Or could it be?

I had so many questions running through my mind that I could not think straight. And then an idea struck me. Gurbaksh. He would know where the letter came from, or he could give me some hint. I wanted to call him. I looked at the wall clock, and it was past midnight. Calling somebody at this hour might not be appropriate. Harnoor and I deliberated over it for some more time, coming up with theories on what could have happened when we finally decided to sleep over it. But sleep eluded me that night. All I could think of were the letters that Gurbaksh Singh had brought me daily during the war. With every letter I received, I was injected with a sense of hope and happiness during those dark times of war. So finally, when the wall clock struck 8 in the morning, I called the barracks to see if I could get Gurbaksh’s number. Thankfully he was still in the barracks.

‘Hello, Gurbaksh. I am Captain Ranjeet Randhawa. You and I are from the same battalion at the front during the war. Remember I had asked you one day how you managed to deliver those letters in a single day.’ I asked Gurbaksh after exchanging the initial greetings.

‘Yes, janab. I do remember. How are you doing? Did you reach your place on time?’ He replied in his fruity voice.

‘Yes, Gurbaksh, I had reached home safely. Gurbaksh, I need to ask you something. Are you sure you don’t know how the letters were delivered in a single day?’ I inquired.

‘Yes, Janaab, all the letters management is done by the Kaptaan sahib.’

‘Gurbaksh, is your kaptaan sahib in the barracks, or has he left?’ I asked hopefully.

‘He is on leave, sir. He went to his village.’

‘Do you have his number?’ I inquired, feeling a little dejected.

‘Nahi Janaab. He does not have a phone, but I do have his address if you want it.

The bus I was traveling in was crowded, to say the least. On top of that, the driver was driving the bus so fast that I expected it to take flight any moment now. It was lucky that half the passengers did not fall off the bus. I, for one, was not complaining. By now, I was aching to meet Kaptaan Saab, whose address Gurbaksh singh had given me. Since his village was all but 2 hour drive from my house, I decided to visit him and booked a state transport bus. A cool wind blew on my face through the window of the bus. Throughout the two-hour journey, I kept thinking and coming up with a plausible explanation of who sent those letters. Was it a prank? If so, who did it? Kaptaan Saab? Why would he do it? And why would he do it with so many men in the battalion? I had called at least five men from the battalion to check, and their families did not receive or send any letters. If it was a prank, then where did our letters go? It could also happen that Kaptaan Saab himself did not know about the letters. He could have just posted it in the nearest post office, and it was someone from the post office who lost our letters. If so, then who wrote back and why? Why would anyone go to such great lengths to play a prank, and that too with soldiers in the middle of the war?

I was brought back to my senses with a jolt as the bus reached its destination. I got down and enquired about the address. The first rickshaw puller took me to the house. It was just 10 mins away. As I paid the rickshaw puller, I saw a congregation of men and women in the verandah of the house where Kaptaan Saab lived. Almost all of them were dressed in white. As I moved closer, I could hear women wailing. As I had suspected, I saw a dead body lying on the floor.

‘Who died?’ I asked one of the men standing near the door of the house.

‘Kaptaan Saab.’ He replied with a low sad voice.

‘Kaptaan Jaspal Singh? The one who came back from the war?’ There was something that sank within me as I asked the stranger. Something heavy. So heavy that it took everything along with it, including me. I felt as if my legs have been tied to a rope while I drown in the sea, struggling to untie myself, gasping for air but unable to do so.

I was praying that this stranger would look at me and say that this was not the same Kaptaan singh. The one you are referring to lives in the house next door, but it was all wishful thinking.

‘Yes, Kaptaan Jaspal singh. He had a heart attack about half an hour ago and died immediately. It is so sad to see such a good person die. He is survived by his wife and his two sons. See how young they are. His wife does not earn anything. What will they do?……’ As the stranger continued, I kept sinking deeper and deeper.”

“Roshan, that day was one of the worst days of my life. To this day, I have not been able to find out who wrote those letters. You cannot imagine how much time I had put into finding who it was, but I never succeeded. The thought still consumes me to this day.” Ranjeet uncle finally finished speaking and looked at me.

“I think I know who did it.” The second man sitting with us in the room spoke for the first time. All along, he was listening to us quietly while we were so engrossed in talking to each other that we did not notice. We turned to look at the man with confusion and surprise. He repeated.

“I think I know who wrote those letters to your Ranjeet Ji. And I think I have something to show you.”

The man was in his late forties and wore grey pants, a white shirt, and black shoes. His rotund face with chubby cheeks resembled a chocolate chip muffin with eyes resembling small raisins. Fuller lips were adorned with a thick mustache that matched the color of his henna-dyed hair. The hair was neatly combed with an extravagant application of oil, ensuring that the hair did not budge a single inch.

“Would you wait for me here for two minutes, Ranjeet Ji?”

We nodded. He went out and returned with a big suitcase in his hands.

Confused, I and Ranjeet uncle looked at each other. He kept the suitcase on the table and opened it. He took out a file and handed it to Ranjeet uncle.

“You might want to look at what’s inside this file.” The man requested Ranjeet uncle.

Confused, Ranjeet uncle opened the file, and I could see the color drain out of his face. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. His entire body froze after looking at whatever was in that file.

While Ranjeet uncle froze, my insides were in the mayhem. I went straight for the file and took it from Ranjeet uncle’s hands.

“Are these the letters you wrote, uncle?” Perplexity leaked from every word I spoke.

He did not answer. He was too stunned to think straight.

“Are these the same letters?” This time I asked the man with the suitcase.

“My grandfather was a postman. He died when I was very young. When he died, he left behind a room full of letters hidden behind the wall. At first, my father and mother were shocked to see a hidden room in the house. Even my grandmother did not know about it. But after the initial shock, instead of getting rid of the letters, my father decided to open each one of them and read it to me every night. There were more than two thousand letters in that room, and we read each of them, some of them multiple times. There were all sorts of letters in there. Men writing to their families, dying people remembering their extended family members they forgot to stay in touch with, lovers pouring their hearts out, and wives of prisoners describing everything happening in the house to the last detail. But the most interesting ones were from soldiers at the war front writing back home. Those were our favorites too. My father and I would read them before bed every single night. We read some of them at least 50 times. One letter per night only. Amongst all the letters we read, the ones that resonated with me the most are the ones you see in this file. Over time I grew up, and the letter reading stopped. As life happened, my grandmother passed away, followed by my mother and, very recently, father. He was 89. Upon his death, I decided to visit the post office and return all the letters we had but decided to keep the ones in the file. After the car servicing today, I was planning to return the remaining ones to the post office when I heard Ranjeet ji’s story.” He took a pause and walked up to Ranjeet uncle.

“Ranjeet Ji. I believe these letters are the same ones you wrote to your wife. They match the description you gave to Roshan. If they are the same letters, I would like to give these to you, and I would like to apologize that not only did I read all of them, but I also do not have any answers as to who wrote the letters back to you. Unfortunately, that secret died with my grandfather.” The man folded his hands as tears rolled from his eyes.

“Ranjeet, uncle are these your letters?” I had to jolt him out of his trance. “Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes” He fell to his knees and let decades of emotions roll out through his eyes down his cheeks.