The Last Letter

The Last Letter

"Papa, whose suitcase is this?" I asked, dusting off Grandpa's old leather bag that had been lying in the attic for the past 20 years. Dad answered without raising his head, "Grandpa's... He never opened it. He fled with everything in it after Partition." The lock of the suitcase was rusted, but something was rattling inside. My fingers felt a small key, hidden in the lining of the suitcase. The key opened the lock of the suitcase. Inside was an iron box, inscribed with "Malhanpur, 1947." The box contained three keys, a sealed envelope, and a black-and-white photograph. In the photo, Grandpa was standing in front of a ruined mansion in his youth. There was a dark stain on the ground near his feet... blood perhaps? It was written on the envelope: *"Whoever reads this will open the third mansion in Malhanpur, where the truth is buried. – Karan Singh"* "Karan Singh? Grandfather's name was Amar Singh!" I was shocked. It took six months to get the visa. As soon as I set foot on the land of Malhanpur, a village in Pakistan, my heart started pounding. The villagers were surprised: "Why has someone from India come here?" An elderly Sikh who stayed behind after Partition said: “That haveli is still in ruins… people say ghosts live there.”

Standing in front of the haveli, my hair stood on end. The walls were squeaking—plaster peeling off, window panes broken, and vines had wrapped their black arms around the main entrance. An old chandelier hung broken from the veranda above, making a tinkling sound in the wind, as if mimicking someone’s laughter. The last rays of the sun were making the red stripes on the walls darker… perhaps they were decades-old blood marks.

As I stepped inside, the crunch of pebbles under my shoes broke the silence. Dust particles danced in the air, and the stench of rotten wood pierced my nose. An old calendar hung on the wall—the page dated August 15, 1947—seemed to hold time. Suddenly, I heard a shriek from behind… perhaps it was a cat, or someone’s spirit. Crying.  

As soon as I opened the hidden door behind the bookshelf, a gust of cold air came up from the stairs, which smelled of rotten flowers. The stairs were so narrow that the shoulders had to be rubbed against the walls while descending. The wood creaked at every step... as if someone was warning: *"Go back."*

As soon as I entered the basement, the torchlight showed a strange sight—figures engraved on the walls. Somewhere handprints, somewhere mantras written in Sanskrit, and somewhere the names "Ranveer-Suman" were written in the form of a heart. There was a broken mirror lying in the corner, in which as soon as the torchlight fell, another face was reflected... maybe my own reflection, or someone else's.  

As I turned the pages of the diary found under the broken statue, a gust of wind extinguished the torchlight. In the darkness, my ears heard a whisper: *"I killed you... I killed you."* The burning matchstick revealed the words written in blood on the wall—**"I am alive."**  

Just then a scream echoed from behind. When I turned around, I saw the shadow of a young man in the broken mirror, who had a pistol in his hand. He slowly moved back and merged into the wall. My breathing became faster... was it Karan's soul, or Amar Singh's ghost?  

Sitting outside the mansion at night, I heard someone walking in the veranda. The sound of footsteps... then the tinkling of the chandelier. Suddenly a white shadow peeped out of the window and disappeared. I did not have the courage to go inside, but when I went back in the morning, there was a new mark on the wall - **"You have revealed my secret."** I mustered up the courage to go back to the basement. I saw a small door there. As soon as I opened the door, I saw a box. I picked it up out of curiosity and the moment I picked up the box containing gold coins, a scream came out from the basement wall. The sound was so shrill that my ears started hurting. The torchlight wavered and a long shadow surrounded me. When I came up the stairs running, the door closed automatically... as if someone had buried me inside. The haunting atmosphere is not limited to shadows only... it is a reflection of those true pains of history, which are alive even after being buried. After controlling my fear, I tried to search for something else around there and I saw another letter under a stone. I started reading it out of curiosity. It was written in it that *"15th August 1947... Today I shot my brother Karan. He had joined the Muslim rioters. He had conspired to sell my sister... I buried his body in this basement. This gold is the price of his betrayal."* **– Amar Singh ** But on the next page it was written: *"16th August 1947... Karan is alive! He betrayed me... This was all his conspiracy."* Now there was no point in me staying there. I picked up that box and went back towards the door. This time the door opened on its own. Without stopping, I ran out of that ruined mansion. The village elder "Harbhajan Singh" said: "Karan did not die. He fled to India. He lived his life using the name Amar Singh... Your grandfather was actually Karan!" I called my father: "Wasn't grandfather's name Amar?" After a moment of silence, my father confessed: "Yes... Grandfather did not kill Karan, but the real Amar Singh. He was Karan himself!" The grave of "Amar Singh" was found in a dilapidated cemetery behind the mansion. It was written on the gravestone: **"Here lies the truth, which Karan killed."** That evening, when I was sitting silently in the graveyard, I removed a stone from the wall, and found another letter under the stone: *"My dear descendants... if you are reading this, then understand that truth is never buried. I killed my brother and saved the village, but my soul never rested. This gold is for the village... Rehabilitate Malhanpur."* **– Karan Singh** Before selling the gold coins, I looked at one coin... it had "Amar Singh, 1947" engraved on it! Father told me: "Karan had engraved his brother's name on the coin... so that history remembers him." I spent that gold in building schools and wells in Malhanpur. Today that mansion is a museum, where everyone gets to read grandfather's diary and the story of Karan-Amar. The truths in the pages of history are not bookish... they are often written with blood and tears. The burden of truth is bigger than relationships, which has to be carried for generations.