Chapter 13: Letters from the Inside
901 Words
It arrived on a Tuesday morning.
Folded. Handwritten. No name. No signature.
No return address.
Just a single word on the envelope:
“Aarav.”
Ravi found it tucked between a stack of donated books at the community center.
“Probably another fan letter,” he said casually, tossing it to Aarav.
But as soon as Aarav read the first line, his fingers tightened.
“You don’t know me.
But I know you.
I’ve been reading your pamphlets for over a year now.
And I used to be one of the people they’re written about.
The kind of person you fought against.”
Aarav paused.
The ink was clean, almost formal. The writer wasn’t a worker.
He was someone from the other side.
He kept reading.
“I was a manager at the Rohit Textile Mill. I oversaw two departments.
I knew the safety rules weren’t followed.
I knew the ventilation was poor.
I knew about the expired fire extinguishers.
I filed fake reports.
I looked the other way.
Because promotions mattered.
Because bonuses mattered.
Because I had convinced myself that ‘I wasn’t the worst of them.’”
Aarav’s chest tightened.
The Rohit Mill was one of the deadliest factories in the district.
Three accidents in two years. One death.
Dozens of injuries.
And here it was—an insider, writing from guilt.
The letter continued:
“After I read your story about Gopal… something broke.
It wasn’t your anger that shook me.
It was your honesty.
The kind that leaves no space to hide behind excuses.”
“So I’ve enclosed documents. Originals. Memos. Internal emails.
Files they buried.
Warnings they ignored.”
“I don’t expect forgiveness.
I just want the truth to find light.”
“I’m resigning today.
You don’t know me.
But maybe, one day, you’ll know what I helped undo.”
— A Former Cog in the Machine
Stapled to the letter were six pages of damning evidence:
Internal memos covering up electrical faults
Reports showing known safety violations
Payroll sheets revealing unpaid overtime
A scanned image of a safety audit marked “fabricated”
Aarav and Ravi sat in silence.
These weren’t just words.
This was fuel.
“What do we do with it?” Ravi asked.
Aarav didn’t hesitate.
“We publish it.”
That week, the community center released a special bulletin:
“From the Other Side: A Manager’s Confession”
It included excerpts of the letter, redacted names, and snapshots of the leaked documents.
It was titled:
“The Truth Doesn’t Belong to One Side.”
It spread like wildfire.
Journalists picked it up.
Lawyers offered pro bono support.
One regional newspaper called it the “blue-collar WikiLeaks.”
And for the first time, workers weren’t just telling their stories—
Someone from the system was confirming them.
A month later, an official inquiry was launched into Rohit Textile Mill.
They tried to discredit the leak.
But there were too many copies.
Too many voices now demanding answers.
The mill was shut for three weeks pending investigation.
The workers were rehired under a different contractor—with better conditions.
And though no names were revealed, people knew:
“One of them broke ranks.”
“One of them came clean.”
But Aarav wasn’t celebrating.
He was thinking about the letter.
About the line that said:
“Maybe, one day, you’ll know what I helped undo.”
That evening, Aarav started a new project.
He called it:
Letters from the Inside
It wasn’t for whistleblowers alone.
It was for anyone—manager, cleaner, delivery boy, clerk, officer—who had seen injustice and wanted to speak, even in the dark.
The only rule:
No names. No fame. Just truth.
He set up a locked drop-box at the center.
They opened a private online portal too.
And the letters began to pour in.
Some were handwritten confessions.
Some were half-erased rants.
Some were quiet regrets.
One simply said:
“I’ve watched my team fake injury reports for years. I never had the courage to stop it. But I see you now. Maybe I will try.”
Aarav curated the most powerful letters into a printed zine.
Title:
Inside Out
It sold for ₹5 at street corners, train stations, and college fests.
The money went back to the printing fund.
The truth kept flowing forward.
A few weeks later, Aarav received one more letter—this time marked only by initials:
“P.S.”
It read:
“You may not remember me.
I was the boy from your factory dorm who once cried into his biscuit.
You gave me half.
You also gave me the courage to leave that place.
I work in a call center now.
Not perfect. But better.
And I write.
Because I watched you do it first.”
Aarav closed his eyes.
There were storms.
But there were also echoes.
And some of them returned with voices.
That night, Ravi found him staring at the bulletin board.
“You okay?”
Aarav nodded. “Just realizing something.”
“What?”
“That truth is a river.
We think we control it.
But it flows where it must.
And we can either drown…
Or build bridges from it.”
And with that, the road beyond the storm widened again.
Now, it carried voices from both sides.
And every step forward was louder than the silence left behind.
- Writer
