THE UNWANTED DAUGHTER -IN- LAW

EPISODE 7- THE LAST LETTER

The rain had not stopped for three days.

It came down in thin silver threads at first, tapping against the tin roof of the old house like impatient fingers. Then it grew heavier, until the whole world outside the window was just gray water and wind. The lanes of Samalkha turned to mud. The power went out every evening at six. And inside the house, Meera sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders and a letter in her hands that she had not opened yet.

It was not addressed to her.

That was the problem.

The envelope was yellow with age. The ink was faded to brown. In the top left corner, in careful handwriting, it said: _For Aarav. To be opened only when you are ready._

Aarav was her younger brother. He had died two years ago in a bus accident on his way to college. He was nineteen.

Meera was twenty-one now, and she had found the letter last week while cleaning the almirah. It was tucked inside Aarav’s old science notebook, between a page on Newton’s laws and a doodle of a bicycle. She had not told anyone. Not her mother, who still kept Aarav’s room exactly the way he left it. Not her father, who stopped talking about him after the first year.

She just kept the letter. And waited.

The rain made her think of him more. Aarav loved the rain. He used to run outside without an umbrella, come back soaked, and laugh while their mother scolded him. “You’ll catch a cold,” she’d say. “It’s worth it, Ma,” he’d reply. “The world smells better when it rains.”

Meera looked at the envelope again. _To be opened only when you are ready._

Was she ready? She didn’t know.

A knock on the door made her jump. It was Mrs. Sharma from next door, holding a tiffin box and an umbrella that was dripping all over the floor.

“Beta, I made aloo parathas,” she said, stepping in. “And I saw your light was on. Power’s gone in the whole street. You eating?”

Meera nodded and took the tiffin. “Thank you, Aunty.”

Mrs. Sharma noticed the letter immediately. Old people notice everything. “Whose letter is that?”

Meera hesitated. Then, because the rain made people honest, she said, “Aarav’s. I found it.”

Mrs. Sharma’s face softened. She sat down on the floor next to Meera, not on the chair. “You going to read it?”

“I don’t know. What if it’s something I can’t handle?”

“What if it’s something you need?” Mrs. Sharma said gently. She patted Meera’s hand. “Your brother was a good boy. He wouldn’t write anything to hurt you.”

After she left, the house was quiet again except for the rain. Meera put the tiffin aside. She wasn’t hungry.

At 8 PM, the power cut out, right on time. The room went dark. Meera lit a candle and placed it on the table. The flame flickered and made shadows dance on the wall. She looked at the envelope in the candlelight.

_For Aarav. To be opened only when you are ready._

She took a breath and slid her finger under the flap.

Inside was one page. One side only. The handwriting was Aarav’s. Messy, rushed, but familiar.

_Meera didi,_

_If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to give it to you myself. And it also means you’re ready. Or maybe you’re not, but you found it anyway. That’s okay too._

_I wrote this last month. After the college fest. Remember I came home late and you yelled at me? I was actually at the lake with Ananya. Yeah, that Ananya from tuition. We’ve been talking for a while. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d say “focus on studies” and you’d be right. But I wanted you to know anyway. She makes me laugh the way you do when I tell bad jokes._

_Didi, I know you think you have to be strong for everyone. For Ma, for Papa, for me. But you don’t. You can cry. You can be angry. You can take a day off from being the responsible one. I see how tired you are. You wake up early, you make tea, you check my homework even though I’m in college now. Who checks yours?_

_I’m sorry I won’t be there for your graduation. I’m sorry I won’t be there to tease you when you get your first job. I’m sorry I won’t be there when you get married and I have to give a speech and probably cry on stage._

_But I want you to do all those things anyway. Promise me. Don’t put your life on pause because I’m not in it. That’s not what I’d want._

_Also, in my cupboard, under the shirts, there’s a box. There’s 4,000 rupees in it. I was saving for a new phone. Use it for something for yourself. Not for Ma and Papa. For you. A course, a trip, a dress, whatever. Just don’t save it. Spend it on something that makes you feel alive._

_Last thing. The rain. I know you hate it because it reminds you of me. But try to like it again, okay? Go stand outside for five minutes with no umbrella. Smell the earth. That’s me saying hi._

_I love you, didi. The most. Always._

_— Aarav_

The candle flame wavered. Meera didn’t realize she was crying until a drop fell on the paper and blurred the word “always.”

She read it three more times.

Then she stood up, walked to Aarav’s room, and opened the cupboard. Under the folded shirts was a small blue box. Inside it, wrapped in rubber band, were the notes. 4,000 rupees.

She held the money and the letter to her chest and cried properly for the first time in two years. Not the quiet crying she did at night. The loud, messy kind. The kind Aarav would have teased her about.

When she stopped, the rain had slowed.

She went to the door and opened it. The air outside was cold and smelled like wet mud and leaves. Just like Aarav said. She stepped out onto the small porch in her bare feet. No umbrella.

The rain touched her hair, her face, her arms. It was not sad. It was just rain.

Back inside, she folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. Then she took out her own notebook. The one she used for writing stories.

She wrote at the top of a new page: _Episode 7._

And then she started writing. About a brother who left a letter. About a sister who was afraid to read it. About rain that didn’t have to mean goodbye.

She wrote until the candle burned out. She wrote until the sky outside turned from black to gray.

When her mother woke up at six and found her at the table, surrounded by pages, she didn’t ask any questions. She just made tea and placed a cup next to Meera.

“Did you sleep?” her mother asked.

“No,” Meera said. “But I’m okay.”

It was the first time she’d said that and meant it.

That afternoon, she went to the market and bought a new notebook. And a yellow umbrella. She didn’t need it for the rain. She needed it to remind herself that she could choose to stay dry, or choose to get wet. Both were okay.

She also enrolled in a writing workshop in the city. It cost 3,500 rupees. She used Aarav’s money.

On the first day of class, the teacher asked everyone to introduce themselves and share why they were there.

Meera stood up. Her hands shook a little.

“My name is Meera,” she said. “I’m here because my brother told me to keep writing. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

After class, a girl came up to her. “That was brave,” she said. “I’m Ananya.”

Meera froze. Then she looked at the girl. Same Ananya? Maybe. Maybe not. The city was full of Ananyas.

“Nice to meet you,” Meera said, and smiled. A real one.

That night, it rained again. Meera didn’t light a candle. She didn’t need to. She opened the window and let the sound come in.

She took out the letter and read the last line once more: _I love you, didi. The most. Always._

Then she placed it back in the box, next to the empty space where the money used to be.

She picked up her pen.

TO BE CONTINUED.