Arjun sat on the far bank of the Ganges, the sacred river flowing steadily before him like an endless scroll of time. The evening light had softened into hues of gold and crimson, painting the water with a quiet glow. One by one, he read the letters again, each page heavy with memories that rose from the depths of his heart. With every line, forgotten moments returned—laughter, shared secrets, small joys, and silent pains.
When he finished reading each letter, he folded it gently and offered it to the river with tear-filled eyes. The Ganges accepted them quietly, its current carrying the papers away, dissolving the ink as if washing away an old sorrow. The river seemed to understand, granting a silent release from burdens long carried.
Yet one final letter remained untouched in his hands. This one he could not surrender to the water. It held the fragile threads of his childhood, memories too precious and painful to let go. The paper, worn and yellowed at the edges, was not merely a letter; it was a piece of his past, a living link to roots he could never fully sever. Arjun pressed it close to his chest, his fingers tracing the familiar creases. He knew that some bonds refuse to break. The unconscious mind had sealed them within him, carrying them across years and perhaps even lifetimes. Freedom from such ties felt impossible.
In love, people do not seek liberation. Their love itself becomes their liberation. Love is a bond, yes, but not one that imprisons the soul. Instead, it gives the soul meaning. Through love, a person learns sacrifice, endurance, and above all, how to step outside oneself and live for another.
As Arjun read this last letter, his fingers paused many times. The words seemed written not on paper but directly upon the innocent memories of childhood. He could almost picture the hand that had written them: trembling with emotion, eyes brimming with tears at every sentence.
The letter began:—
"Bittoo, do you still eat panjeeri and call out 'foofa'? Have you forgotten the days gone by, or do you still remember me sometimes?Perhaps by now you have erased me completely from your mind, and like me, you too have moved forward in life. Do you remember, Bittoo, how you used to carry my school bag as well as your own, yet you never once complained?
You were always so kind, even then. At your house, I learned to eat paratha with tea. When your mother suffered from migraine headaches, meals were often simple—just paratha and tea. To tell the truth, even today I cannot break that habit. The taste of childhood lingers on my tongue.
Do you recall the entrance examination? In the mathematics paper, I did not listen to your advice. You kept trying to correct my sequence of ascending and descending orders, but I ignored you. I thought you were deliberately trying to make me write the wrong answer. That day, I failed not only in mathematics but in something far greater. Because of it, I could not secure admission in the new school. That was when the distance between us began to grow.
I know now that I should have trusted you. If I had, our school would not have changed, and our friendship would not have soured. But what could I do? My mother and father had strictly forbidden me from speaking to you both. If my little sister saw me talking to you, she would run home and complain. The burden of guilt and the fear of punishment made me start keeping my distance from you and your sister. Slowly, unwillingly, I drifted away.
I had always copied you in Hindi class. How I wish I had copied you in mathematics that day too! Then our school would not have changed, our paths would not have separated, and we would not have been torn apart like this. Diwali would have remained bright with lamps, and Holi would have stayed colorful with joy.
But fate wrote a different story. Destiny stood in our way.That year, you and your family went to your village in Odisha for your uncle's wedding. You were gone for two full months. By the time you returned, we had already moved to Chandanpur. My stepfather had started a new business there. In Navdeep, people often insulted and disrespected him, so he decided to settle in a new town.
In that new place, there was no room left for me. My parents wanted to be rid of me quickly, and they succeeded. During the holy month of Purushottam, they took the family to Varanasi on the pretext of offering prayers at Baba Vishwanath's temple. There, my stepfather timmersed me in the Ganges. This time, he made no mistake. His plan worked perfectly. To the rest of the family, it must have seemed like a tragic accident.That day, everything I had known was left far behind.
Floating in the river's flow, I drifted nearly seventy kilometers from Varanasi and reached Ghazipur. There, I collided with a wooden log from a tree. My adoptive father and Naman's father, both skilled swimmers, spotted me in the water. With tireless effort, they pulled me out.
My new father had no children of his own. He made inquiries everywhere, but when no one came forward with information about me, he and his wife accepted me as their daughter. That was the day Shreya was born anew.
If there has been anything good in my life besides you, it is these people.They gave me immense love and enrolled me in a good school. I was truly happy with them. I remembered every incident from my childhood, but I chose not to speak of it. Whenever anyone asked about my past, I simply said I remembered nothing. No one pressed further."
~Shreya (Rani)
Arjun lowered the letter for a moment, his eyes misty. The sun had dipped lower, and the river's surface shimmered with the last rays of daylight. Gentle waves lapped against the muddy bank, creating soft, rhythmic sounds that mingled with the distant calls of birds returning to their nests. The air carried the faint scent of wet earth and incense from a nearby temple. Everything around him felt alive with quiet sorrow.
He had always been a strange young man, Arjun thought. The world expects men to be hard, unyielding like stone. Yet he felt emotions with raw honesty. Tears came easily to him, and memories wrapped around his heart like vines. Did boys truly possess such sensitivity, or had society simply forgotten to teach them that it was all right to cry, to break, and to cherish what was lost?
The Ganges flowed peacefully, its surface calm and reflective, but inside Arjun, an entire lifetime of waves surged and crashed.
He remembered 'Bittoo'—the boy he once was running through narrow lanes with his friends, school bags bouncing on their backs. The girl in the letter had been part of that innocent world. Her laughter had echoed in the afternoons when they studied together under the shade of a large pipal tree.
She had a habit of biting her lower lip when concentrating on sums, and her handwriting was neat and careful, unlike his hurried scrawl.The mathematics exam incident replayed in his mind. He had seen her answers and known they were wrong. He had whispered corrections, trying desperately to help. But suspicion and fear had clouded her judgment.
How small misunderstandings could alter the course of lives! One wrong decision, one moment of doubt, and the fabric of friendship had begun to unravel. Schools changed. Families moved. Distances grew until they became oceans.Then came the unimaginable part—the journey down the Ganges. Arjun's heart tightened as he imagined her small body floating in the holy river, the same waters now carrying his other letters.
What terror she must have felt. What betrayal. Yet the river, in its mysterious way, had delivered her to safety. New parents had found her, loved her, and given her the name Shreya. A second birth. A second chance.
.