The Last Letter

Suddenly, it started raining.

Mr. Firoz liked the rain. Whether it came suddenly, silently, or with grand thunder and fanfare — he liked it all the same. He walked into the living room with a cup of tea in hand. He pulled the curtain over the window. Though the rain wasn’t too heavy, he found it quite pleasant.

But then, over the sound of the rain, the doorbell started ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. It kept ringing. Relentlessly.

To Mr. Firoz, the sound of the doorbell during a rainstorm always brought a sense of unease. Whoever was outside would have to be entertained until the rain let up. And if the street in front of the house flooded, there would be no escape from waiting until the water receded.

The doorbell continued to ring.

The guard must be hiding in some corner of the garage. Otherwise, he would’ve opened the door by now.

The visitor, whoever they were, was likely soaking up the rain. That many rings could only mean one thing.

Mr. Firoz called the guard on the intercom. No answer.

He called on the mobile phone instead. This time, someone picked up.

“Yes, sir?”

“Someone’s been ringing the bell over and over at the gate. Go open it, quickly.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Mr. Firoz took a towel and stood by the door. Whoever it was, he didn’t want them sitting on the sofa soaked in rainwater. They had to dry off properly first.

A girl came up the stairs and stood in front of him.

As soon as he saw her, a word slipped out of Mr. Firoz’s mouth without him realizing: “Ratri.”

At the sound of the name, a single drop of water appeared in the corner of the girl’s eye.

Mr. Firoz didn’t think much of it. To him, it didn’t seem different from any other raindrop.

He was concentrating on Ratri. But then something snapped his focus.

“I’m her daughter.” The words were filled with emotion, trembling like the onset of tears.

Still, Mr. Firoz remained absorbed in the thought of Ratri. He hadn’t seen her in so long.

“My mother’s name was Ratri,” the girl said again, her voice shaking.

Mr. Firoz thought she was shivering from being soaked in the rain. He held out the towel and said, “Come inside. This way. Sit on the sofa.”

Instead of sitting down, the girl handed him an envelope. Mr. Firoz had a feeling it might be something important. He tore open one side and pulled out a letter. He began to read:

“Dear Sir,

Assalamu Alaikum.

How are you? This is Ratri.

Even if no other girl in class learned anything, I was the one who did. You often told the whole class, ‘Just watch — this girl of mine will go far.’

If you get time, come visit. I’m writing only to say this. Otherwise, you might say later, ‘The girl didn’t even come to see me before leaving.’

I never saw you smile in class. Now I want to sit in front of you and share good news. To see if it makes you smile. I want to say — you were right. I’m going far.

Maybe that’s why, just two days after my high school exams ended, I was married off. Straight to my husband’s house. At first, I wondered — why so soon? Later, I thought, maybe I have to go far, just as you said. If I had stayed to finish my studies, I might have fallen behind.

Within five years of marriage, I had two children. Both girls. Two years later, I tried again for a boy — another girl. After ten years of marriage, I finally gave the world what it wanted — a son. Not one, but a pair. Twins.

These five children paved the road for me to go far. When I was diagnosed with cervical cancer at the age of 32, the doctor said, ‘Don’t lie about your age. This disease doesn’t usually show up this early.’

I said nothing. Just thought—there’s a lot that wasn’t supposed to happen at this age. Five children?

When I got home, I looked in the mirror. What I saw looked older than forty. When you see me again, don’t mistake me for my mother. She passed away long ago.

I hope you come soon. Before I go far—just like you once said—I want you to see your daughter one last time.

I’m sending my eldest daughter to you. There's no requirement for elaborate prayers. Just say a little one. Your prayers always seem to come true.

Waiting for you,

‘Your daughter, ready to go far’.”

Finishing the letter, he looked at the girl, his eyes wet. She resembled Ratri so much. He said, “Sit down for a minute. Five minutes. Let me change. I’ll come with you. To see Ratri.”

“She’s not here anymore,” the girl said.

“What do you mean?”

“She passed away last month. Before she died, she gave me this letter and told me to deliver it to you. I couldn’t come sooner because of everything going on.”

And with that, she broke into sobs. The girl stood there, crying uncontrollably.

He thought of asking her to sit or maybe placing a hand on her head. But he did nothing.

Let her cry. Let the tears make her strong. Because the world waiting for her would be harsher than the one Ratri had lived in.