Letters of An Indian Solider to his beloved During World War II

January 25, 1944

France

My Dearest Meera,

As I sit down to write to you, the candle before me flickers weakly, much like the hope in my heart fragile, yet unwilling to die. Outside, the wind carries the distant echoes of war, but in this moment, I shut my eyes and think only of you. The sound of your anklets, the scent of jasmine in your hair, the softness of your voice calling my name I carry these with me, shielding them from the blood and fire that surround me.

It is bitterly cold here, so different from the warmth of our homeland. I miss the sun-drenched fields of Punjab, the cool shade of the peepal tree where we used to sit, your bangles jingling as you covered your face in shyness whenever I stole a glance. Do you remember how you pressed a marigold into my palm the night before I left? I still have it, Meera, hidden inside my pocket, though it has long since dried. It reminds me of home. It reminds me of you.

The French villagers here look at us the men in khaki turbans, rifles in hand—with both awe and sorrow. They do not speak our tongue, yet their eyes say everything: Save us. And so, we fight. We charge through fields drenched in mist, past ruins that once held laughter, over roads that now know only the march of boots and the groans of the wounded. Some of our brothers fall, and we must leave them behind. This is war, they tell us. But I wonder, Meera what kind of world destroys sons before they can return to their mothers?

I have seen much, too much, but your love is my refuge. When the night stretches long and the cold seeps into my bones, I think of your hands pressing dough in the kitchen, of the way you tilt your head when you read my letters, your lips curving into that smile I ache to see again.

Tell me of home, my love. Does the rain still make the soil smell sweet? Do you still sit by the verandah, humming old songs as you wait for my letters? And tell me, most of all, will you wait for me still?

I do not know what tomorrow holds, but I know this I will fight, I will endure, and if the gods allow, I will return to you. And if I do not… then let the next monsoon carry my love to you, wrapped in the wind, whispering your name.

Forever yours,

Amar

February 14, 1944

Ludhiana, Punjab

My Dearest Amar,

Your letter arrived today, bringing with it the scent of old paper and the weight of your longing. I pressed it to my lips before unfolding it, as if I could somehow breathe you in, feel your presence within these lines. Oh, my love, you ask if I still wait for you? What is the moon without the night? What is the river without its course? What is Meera without Amar?

Every evening, I sit on the verandah, as I always have, watching the sun dip below the fields, imagining you walking down that dusty road, your uniform wrinkled but your eyes shining with the promise of home. But the road remains empty. The bells in the temple still chime, the village children still run barefoot in the fields, but my heart my heart is caught in the space between your last embrace and the unknown days ahead.

The women here whisper about the war, about sons who left and never returned, about wives whose arms remain forever empty. But I do not let their words touch me, Amar. You will return. You must. I refuse to believe that a love like ours, carved into the very stars, could be so easily erased by war.

The marigold you carry I sent another today, tucked into the folds of my sari as I prayed at the temple. The priest said that the gods listen to love spoken in whispers. So I whisper your name every night, offering it to the wind, hoping it finds you in those distant, war-torn lands.

Come back to me, Amar. Come back before the mango trees bear fruit, before the koel sings its summer song. Come back and call me your Meera again.

Forever and always,

Meera

April 3, 1944

France

My Dearest Meera,

Your letter found me in the darkest of hours. The battle here has worsened, the land itself groaning beneath the weight of war. But your words, my love, were the light in this abyss. I read them under the stars, tracing each letter as if they were your fingertips against my skin.

I wish I could promise you I will return. I wish I could tell you that the war will end before the mango trees ripen. But the truth, Meera, is that I do not know. I fight with all I have, not for empire, not for kings, but for the hope of holding you again

If I do not return, remember this I was yours in life, and I will be yours beyond it. No war, no time, no force in the universe can take that from us. If I fall, let my love bloom in the marigolds that line our village roads, let it rise with the sun that warms your skin, let it whisper in the monsoon winds that carry my name to your ears.

Live, my love. If I cannot return to you, then let me live in the memories you cherish, in the songs you hum, in the laughter of our unborn children. But if fate is kind, and I do come home, know this I will spend every moment proving that no distance, no war, no power could keep me from you.

With all that I am,

Amar

" The letter never reached Meera. On June6,1944 , in a land far from home, Amar fell his blood mixing with the foreign soil, his last breath carrying only one name. Weeks later, a telegram arrived at Meera’s doorstep, its words cold and final. But she did not cry. Instead, she walked to the peepal tree where they once sat, pressed a marigold into the earth, and whispered his name to the wind. And in that moment, a breeze stirred the leaves, carrying with it the soft scent of jasmine, as if the universe itself had paused to listen, to remember, to carry a love that war could not erase."