It was written by Animesh, the friend of my heart. I could not be mistaken, it was the very same coloured envelope, the same decorated notepaper and the very same hand-writing, suggesting the marching of ants on paper that could be the work of none other. But I was at a loss to understand what connection there could possibly be between my gay young friend Animesh and this village girl Nirjharinee, dying slowly of an incurable disease. "Where did you get this, Molly?" I asked.
"How silly you are, uncle; don't I know that sister keeps her letters under her pillow? She takes them out every day, reads them and weeps. She has no new letter. Father gets new letters every day, my brother gets them, mother, too, gets them. Even I had one yesterday. But nobody writes to sister. I don't know how to write, otherwise I would have written letters every day, and given them to the postman to give to sister."
I have never been called sentimental or romantic by my worst enemies; yet this child's words touched my heart. They do not know yet how easy it is to wound in this world and how very difficult to heal. She thought in her child's innocence that a few scratches of a pen on paper would be enough to solace her dying sister. And she did not understand this terrible hardheartedness which refused to do so little for a suffering fellow-creature. She looked at me with eyes full of entreaty and said. "Do write it now uncle. Write just like that and it will be all right."
It was bound to be all wrong. Still to get rid of her, I said, "Very well Molly, go and play now." Molly ran off beaming with satisfaction and joy.
I hesitated with that letter in my hand. Should I open and read its contents or leave it untouched? My curiosity triumphed at last. I pulled out two sheets of closely written paper.
