Mira turned the page of the next letter, her fingers trembling slightly.

This one began differently.

“My dearest Lakshmi,

There’s a certain peace in writing to you by lantern light, though I know I may never send this.”

The handwriting was familiar now. Mira had begun to feel a strange intimacy with this unknown man — Arvind.

This letter was longer, more vulnerable. And it was the first one that used the word love.

“It has taken me months to admit this, even to myself. But I must say it once, even if just on paper — I love you.”

Mira’s breath caught.

“Not in the loud, dramatic way the cinema shows. But in quiet glances across classrooms, in sharing newspapers under neem trees, in the way you corrected my Tamil without making me feel small. I love the way you speak about change — as if it’s possible, as if it’s already happening, if only the rest of us would catch up.”

The letter went on to describe the struggles of that time — how Arvind had joined a volunteer group that helped resettle refugees and distribute food in drought-affected villages. Mira was surprised to read of police threats and surveillance. Even after independence, tension remained. Political ideologies clashed. Freedom had come, but equality hadn’t.

“I’ve seen you speak in front of crowds, and I’ve also seen you cry when the news arrived about the girl who was forced to drop out. You want to change the world, Lakshmi. And I… I just want to be part of the world you believe in.”

There was tenderness in every word, but also restraint. Their love, clearly, was one that had to hide — not because it was shameful, but because it dared to dream too much in a world not ready for it.

And then came the part that hit Mira the hardest:

“They are discussing a match for you. A boy from Coimbatore. Educated. Settled. Safe. I don’t blame them. What can a man like me offer? A poet with dusty shoes and a bag full of pamphlets. But if the sky ever clears, if you ever decide to leave the path they’ve drawn for you — I will wait. I will always wait.”

Mira pressed her fingers to her lips, heart pounding.

There was no reply letter in the trunk.

Just silence.

Had Amma — Lakshmi — replied?

Had she gone to Coimbatore and married the boy?

Had Arvind ever received an answer?

Mira didn’t know. She could only guess.

But what she did know was this: her mother had once been loved deeply, by a man who saw her not just for what she was — but for what she believed in. A love that wasn’t possessive or demanding, but waiting, patient. Brave.

The kind of love that didn’t always end with a wedding — but lingered, somewhere, in folded letters and red sarees tucked away in old trunks.

And perhaps, in Amma’s silence about her past, there had been both heartbreak and honor.

Mira sat quietly, watching the light shift across the floor. Somewhere in the house, a breeze moved through the curtains. And she imagined Arvind, years ago, writing that letter with a storm in his heart and hope in his ink.