The pain that is not expressed never truly heals."The real question, however, is this: to whom should one express that pain? And who, in the end, will truly understand it?
In those few lines of her letter, Shreya had said far more than she wrote. Though she barely mentioned Naman and his family directly, her words revealed everything. One did not need to struggle to read between them.
Naman had liked me for a very long time. When I joined the physiotherapy course, he was my senior, already in his final year. It was because of him that I had chosen this path. After I failed to secure a seat in MBBS, I decided to become a physiotherapist, inspired by his example. At that time, he seemed like the safest and most familiar choice. His family felt reliable, the kind of people with whom I could build a stable life.
My adoptive parents were overjoyed at the prospect. For them, turning an old friendship into a family bond brought deep satisfaction and peace.It is true that Naman and his family had known us for only three or four years. They had moved from Kolkata to our small town, yet their warmth and conduct left no room for doubt.
Naman's easy conversation, his ability to blend in naturally, his politeness on every occasion, and the affection he showed in every word created an atmosphere of complete trust. No one in my family harboured even the slightest suspicion. And so, without probing the depths of the future, we all gave our ready consent.
When his family asked for my hand, fully aware of my background, neither my guardians nor I could say no. Somewhere within me, I had also begun to like his company. There was an undeniable charm in his manners and personality that drew me in. He spoke with restraint, maintained balance in his words, and carried himself with quiet composure in every situation. His understanding and self-confidence often left an impression on me. Without realising it, I had grown comfortable in his presence.
I avoided admitting to myself that it was attraction, or perhaps something deeper, but the truth was that talking to him and being near him had become a habit. Slowly, this attachment began to shape my decisions. I convinced myself that whatever felt good must surely be right.
I kept moving toward his personality, drawn like a moth to flame. That was my mistake. I had never learned, as a child, to distinguish between my own and the outsider, nor did I understand the complexities of relationships as I grew older. Naman always spoke only of studies and a bright future. He moved in respectable, cultured circles, so no one imagined he could ever fall into bad company. In everyone's eyes, he was a responsible, ambitious, and trustworthy young man.
After our marriage, Naman and his parents suddenly decided to leave Ghazipur and settled in Murshidabad. My adoptive parents were unhappy with this sudden move. They had hoped we would settle in Kolkata, but Naman and his family were determined to take me to Murshidabad instead. My mother and father were filled with unspoken fears, yet they were helpless before circumstances. Deep in their hearts, they remained anxious as they watched me disappear from their sight.
And I, standing at the threshold of a new life, tried my best to ignore the quiet unease stirring within me.
Through her letter, Shreya had finally given voice to her pain. Perhaps the wound had begun to heal a little. Who can truly say? But to whom could she show the deeper wounds of her heart?
Shreya had written in one of her letters:"My pain has grown so monstrous that perhaps only by expressing it will I find some relief. It is that sweet pain which begins unnoticed, slowly develops, and turns chronic. Such wounds do not heal easily; they need constant care."
By now, Arjun had come to know the entire story of the girl who had once been Rani and had become Shreya. He understood that she carried not even the slightest fault, fate had played a far greater hand.
Knowing this truth, Arjun too fell silent, feeling utterly helpless. Even he stood bound before destiny."I am afraid of the storms that have entered your life because of me. I don't care about my own life anymore.
I have lost far more than I have ever gained." This storm was not born of fear or guilt. It was the storm of an unfinished story: a story that, even in this moment of relief, held Arjun's hand and whispered: "We still have to go further, Arjun. The truth is not complete yet."
Ever since he had regained his innocence, Arjun had felt that nature had quietly handed him a new battle.
With great care, he released all the letters he had preserved into the flowing waters of the Ganga. As the sheets dissolved in the current, the pain buried inside him lightened a little. A heavy burden seemed to lift from his heart. For the first time in a long while, he felt a measure of peace, the kind that comes only after enduring much suffering.
He spent the entire day wandering aimlessly through the ghats. He had no particular direction, no sense of time. Walking along the paths, he drank a glass of sattu from a roadside cart and sat by the ghat to eat some roasted gram and puffed rice. With this simple fare, he roamed the ghats all day. The waves of the Ganga, the ascetics sitting on the steps, and the echoing sound of the evening aarti, all of it quietly seeped into his soul.
Evening had fallen. Sharp hunger began to gnaw at him. He had planned to return home that night, but then he remembered—it was Paush month, Trayodashi. The thought brought him comfort. He would visit Baba Vishwanath one more time before leaving.
Arjun decided that on this sacred evening in Kashi, he would bow his head before Lord Vishwanath from afar, then catch his train home. Perhaps the darshan would grant him the complete peace he had been seeking all day. He stopped at a small dhaba to eat.
After the day's exhaustion, the simple meal tasted wonderful. He was still eating when his phone suddenly rang. Kavya's name flashed on the screen.
As soon as he answered, her voice came through, "Where are you right now? Did you reach home today?"
In the course of their conversation, Kavya told him she had found a hostel and would join it the next morning. Her voice carried relief, excitement for a new beginning, and a hint of unknown fear.
Arjun replied calmly, "No, I'm still in Banaras. I'll take the 10:55 train tonight."When he hung up, there was no restlessness in his heart—only quiet reassurance, as if everything was slowly returning to its rightful place.
At eleven that night, he boarded the return train. The bustle of the coach, the sounds of the platform, and the holy Ganga fading into the distance, all gradually slipped behind him. He felt remarkably light. There was no conflict in his mind, no unfinished words. The fatigue of the day overpowered his body, and within moments, he fell into deep sleep.
The next morning, as the train sped forward, his sleep broke to the calls of the tea vendor: "Chai… garam chai… coffee…"Arjun opened his eyes. Golden sunrays were peeking through the window. The rhythm of the moving train and the peace that had settled in his heart together told him that life was becoming gentle once again.
With sleepy eyes, Arjun gazed at the golden rays of the sun. The sunlight filtering through the window fell on his face. During those long, dark days behind prison walls, he had deeply craved this very sunlight. Just then, his phone rang again. Arjun startled and returned to the present. He glanced at the screen, Suyash's name was displayed. Without delay, he answered.
In a warm, brotherly voice, Suyash said, "We can go meet Madhav Kaka in three days. I also have some important things to discuss with him. I've fixed a time for you too. Just come on time, Arjun. Don't be late." There was genuine affection in his tone, not mere formality.
Arjun replied without hesitation, "Alright, Bhai Sahab." He gave his consent easily. As he ended the call, there was no confusion in his mind, only the thought of Madhav Kaka.
He felt the meeting would not be merely formal, it would bring answers to many unfinished questions in his life. After the call, Arjun got up and walked towards the washroom. As he passed the berth opposite, his steps suddenly halted. A dusky-complexioned girl sitting there looked exactly like Shreya. For a moment, he stood stunned, as if time had frozen.
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