Letters from Lucknow, 1886

“Intercultural Book Club. Join us! Every Sunday 6pm.”

The poster hung alone on a blank wall in my dorm building. As someone who had just moved in and loved novels it seemed like an easy way to meet people. So that Sunday evening, I grabbed my current read and headed to the common room.

A small group had already gathered, steaming cups of tea in hand despite the lingering summer heat.

“Hi, I’m Louise. Is this the book club?”

“Yes! Come in. Tea?”

A girl with dark curls and round glasses smiled warmly. Without waiting for my answer, she handed me a cup and gestured to a free seat beside a pale guy buried in Dune.

On my right sat another boy in a black t-shirt with a metal band’s logo. It was a strange little mix of students. The most curious thing, though, was the stack of books in front of the boy in black: leather-bound, worn, deep green, red, and blue. None had titles or authors.

After about an hour, the club wrapped up and he approached me.

“Louise, right?”

“Yes, hi.” I smiled, but his eyes didn’t quite meet mine.

“Here.” He handed me the green book.

“What is it?” I asked, turning it over.

“It’s yours. You’ll like it.”

He turned and walked away like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed me a century-old mystery and he was gone before I could say anything else or give him his book back. Still, there was no title. No author. No publisher. Just one date written in neat script on the first page: 18th July 1886.

That caught my attention. I took the book back to my room and only then realized that I didn’t even know the name of the boy who’d given it to me. I made a mental note to talk to him next week.

Tea in hand, I settled on my bed and opened the book.

Lucknow, 18th July 1886

Dearest L.,

Yesterday I spoke of the heart’s chambers — oxygen-rich and not. How strange, that the organ we so often equate with feeling is, in fact, a careful machine. Divided. Protective. Designed to keep what nourishes apart from what has already been given away.

It is perhaps foolish of me to write this. You are kind to me, I know. Cordial. Curious. I am a student to your father, nothing more. And yet, I find myself thinking of your voice even now. Not what you said, but how it sounded when you said it. Like the turning of pages in a quiet room.

I have no right to this sentiment. But still, it persists. Not in defiance of reason, but alongside it.

There is a tree behind the dispensary where the breeze sometimes finds its way. Should you wish to borrow another book, I will leave one there.

Ever in thought,

V.

My stomach flipped. “L” could stand for anyone, I told myself. But I already felt the pull. I re-read the letter. Again.

The room felt colder than before. Somehow, it felt like I was remembering the words, not reading them. Like all the world’s longing had slipped between the lines.

I didn’t know who ‘V.’ was. I had to look up Lucknow. A city in northern India. Somehow, the tree “V.” talked about behind the dispensary sounded like a familiar place. Safe.

I almost didn’t dare to turn the page.

Lucknow, 18th July 1886

Dear diary,

I hope you are better at keeping secrets than Juliet. She would betray my heart for a question and a biscuit. I dare not trust her. So I trust you. Please, keep this safe.

I saw him again today. Even from Father’s office, I noticed him walking down the corridor. The heat never seems to touch him. The hospital was stifling as ever, and I stepped out to catch my breath beneath the tree. That’s where I found it.

A note. So simple and yet never has a scrap of paper undone me so entirely.

It feels absurd, even dangerous, how such a small act like the exchange of a book can feel like sedition. I loathe the thought of deceiving Father and Mother. But what could I say? To speak of it would be to unravel everything. No, I mustn’t. I know my place. I know the stories I read are just that: stories. Not life. Never life.

And yet… I long. Foolishly, perhaps. Quietly, entirely. For the boy with the quiet eyes and the borrowed books.

It can never be. I know this.

These words are best burnt.

The story of the book wasn’t so much a story but more a telling of events, a life story, a love story no doubt. But it felt so real. It felt so close. I needed to pause a moment after the first pages. I didn’t even know the characters names yet but I knew them deeply already. “L.” and “V.” had a story to tell - to me specifically. But something is keeping them apart. Probably colonialism. I turned the book over again, delaying reading the next chapter. Why, I don’t know. The cup of tea on my nightstand was lukewarm at best when I opened the next page, expecting another letter from “V.” perhaps. Instead I found another diary entry from “L.”

Lucknow, 3rd August, 1886

Dear Diary,

Father is hosting one of his official dinners tonight. A grand affair for the hospital and Residency men. I never know what to say at such things. Only how to smile and pour tea. But tonight… Veer will be there.

The thought sends my stomach to war with itself.

I remember the first time I saw him — a book under his arm, his coat too large, or perhaps worn like a shield. He passed near Father’s study. His eyes met mine for only a second. I haven’t stopped thinking of him since.

I dare not describe his features. I shouldn’t think such things. But oh! I do.

Father introduced us later in that casual way British men do when they wish to seem modern. I curtsied. He bowed. We said nothing meaningful. But his glance held a pause too long. Or too short.

I wrote to him before I ever spoke to him. Isn’t that mad? A letter, left in his anatomy textbook. I signed it “L.” He replied. He knew.

And now I must sit across from him beneath chandeliers and judgment and pretend he is only my father’s student. I do not know if I am strong enough for such a performance. Yet I am counting down the hours.

My heart beat faster than it should. I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to calm it down. Veer. He has a name. Veer. I caught myself smiling at this. “L.” was a British woman and she was clearly falling for her father’s Indian student. How scandalous! I laughed at this. At least nearly 150 years ago. Even if nothing had happened yet, the stakes of this story were high. Although today’s weather in England was probably nowhere near the heat of August in India I felt sweaty. My palm just as damp as hers must have been when she wrote this and thought of this Veer. I wish she would have described him. Now I am left guessing and imagining him. Tall, black hair, dark brown eyes. Smart and curious. Brave. Lean, but with strong shoulders beneath a medical coat just a little too big. Devastating smile. For a little while I let my imagination conjure up the perfect picture of Veer in my mind. “L.” was doomed from that first time she saw him.

The time on my phone crept closer to midnight. But I saw the next chapter was a letter from Veer and I caught myself thinking: Just one more.

Lucknow, 4th August 1886

Dearest L.,

It is perhaps a cruelty that I see you most clearly in rooms full of other people.

Last night, as you poured tea and responded with perfect grace to comments that did not deserve your attention, I could not help but watch. I know I should not have. But your presence has always had a way of silencing the noise around me.

Your mind is as sharp as any I have encountered — student, teacher, or surgeon. I have read your questions in the margins of the books you leave behind. I have seen how your thoughts twist through a sentence before settling. It humbles me.

And then there is the beauty which I shall not try to describe, for I know no words that would not sound foolish or dangerously close to reverence.

I think of your father often — not only as my teacher, but as the man whose name has opened every door I have walked through since his arrival in Lucknow. I owe him much. My future depends on his regard. And still, I find myself writing to his daughter, knowing full well that I ought not to.

There are moments when I wonder what it would be like to speak to you freely. Not in passing, not beneath chandeliers or between the lines of borrowed novels. But face to face. I do not hope for this. I do not presume. I only confess that the thought lives somewhere in me, like a wound that does not close.

If I have said too much, forgive me. And if I have said too little, I hope the space between these words will say the rest.

Ever in thought,

V.

Very carefully I closed the book as if turning the page might disturb their blossoming romance. I already started thinking in the tone and voice of a Victorian woman. To me this story sounded beautiful. I was already anticipating everything that was to come. Including the happy ending I hope they get. Maybe their hands even touch like Mr Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s in the Pride and Prejudice movie. Honestly, no modern romantasy could build this kind of tension any better. Usually I don’t dream of meeting dragons or fairies but now I closed my eyes and hoped that sleep would take me to faraway places filled with spicy scents, smothering heat, and a forbidden romance that felt too real to be imagined. And if I was lucky, perhaps I’d meet him there, beneath the tree behind the dispensary.

My days were filled with classes, small talk and coffee breaks and I could not wait to get back to the story at night. It almost felt ridiculous how much I was looking forward to reading those cautious love letters and how Veer and “L.” kept communicating through notes left in novels and stolen glances. By now I knew “L.” was a brave young woman in love. Still, nothing prepared me for the next time she confided in her diary.

Lucknow, 28th August 1886

Dear Diary,

I did it. This morning, Father left for Delhi. I knew Veer would be alone at the hospital.

During my walk with Juliet, I let a rose’s thorn catch my wrist. It was hardly more than a scratch, but Juliet panicked and insisted we go to the hospital.

And there he was. He came rushing. “Louise,” he said — and my heart all but stopped.

The rest is a blur: his eyes on mine, his fingers brushing my skin as he cleaned the wound. I was overcome with feeling. I wanted to throw myself into his arms. Imagine the scandal.

I laugh now, but what have I done?

He was so close I could feel the warmth of him, the rise of his breath. But how can we ever be together? What a terrible world, where love like this cannot be.

I knew full well I was holding my own breath through reading this. Her name is Louise! My name! The rational part of my brain was telling me that it’s a common name but now I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just a story. It felt so lived, so terribly near. I had never been to India, knew no one named Veer and still here I was, sitting cross-legged on my bed, too afraid to breath and torn between wanting to know the ending of Louise and Veer, hoping for a grand romantic scene where love conquers all. Every Bollywood movie I knew painted that picture. A love so intense and worthy that everyone started singing and dancing. Again my logical thinking was quietly saying that this was not the most likely outcome. Maybe Louise’s father found out and sent Veer away. Or Louise had to go back to England to marry some boring sheep farmer or something.

I closed the book and stared at my ceiling for a long time.

What started as a dusty curiosity with an anonymous green volume with no title had become something far more consuming. This wasn’t a story anymore. This was a heartbeat. A memory. A life.

And the way he says it — Louise — even in writing, it lingers. I could almost hear it in my head. Soft. Breathless. Real.

The girl who once thought of herself as ordinary now felt like the echo of someone who once lived a life she could barely imagine: gardens and chandeliers, rebellion in rose thorns and glances too long held. And him.

Veer.

Even on the page, he feels real. As if, at any moment, he might round the corner of this century and sit across from me with that steady gaze and too-large coat. And what would I say then?

I pressed the book against my chest. I knew what was coming. The shape of it. The ache of it. The risk. I turned the page, breath caught in my throat. And there he was.

Lucknow, 4th September 1886

My dearest Louise,

There are moments when reason becomes a distant shore, and all that remains is the tide. Relentless and impossible to ignore.

Forgive me, but I no longer find sense in silence.

Since I touched your hand — that smallest of mercies — I have not known peace. You were braver than I, and I have thought of nothing else since.

You are beautiful, yes, and brilliant. But more than that, you are clarity in a world that confuses me. The calm in my sleepless nights. The fire beneath all I cannot say aloud.

And so, I write it now: I would marry you, if I could.

If it were mine to choose — without consequence, without shame — I would take your hand before all the world and call you mine.

But the world is not kind, Louise. Not to people who believe in impossible things.

There is a word in my language: bekhudi. It means surrender. Of the self, the soul. That is what I feel when I see you.

I ask for nothing. I only needed you to know: you are not alone. And if the world were different, or if you said the word, I would follow you beyond it.

Yours, always,

Veer

In that moment I could not keep reading. I closed the book and sat with my thoughts and Veer’s pain and longing for a while.

The next Sunday, I went back to the book club.

The room looked the same. Mismatched chairs. Secondhand rugs. Students arranged in soft, academic disarray. But it felt different. Like I had joined a secret that everyone else already knew.

The boy was there again — the one who had given me the book. Still in his worn black t-shirt, still quiet. His stack of strange, titleless books rested beside him like companions.

I waited until the others were deep in a debate about Kafka before I slid into the seat next to him.

“You gave me a story,” I said softly.

His lips curled into the faintest smile. “Did I?”

I nodded. “I’ve been reading it. It’s… personal. Almost too personal. And the girl — I think she’s me.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look surprised.

I leaned in slightly. “What kind of story is it?”

He glanced down at his books, then back at me, and his voice dropped low, quiet. “We’re all here to discover our own stories.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted instructions. Context. A name. A genre, at least.

Instead, he picked up a different book: dark red, its cover cracked with age and he set it gently in front of me.

“Maybe this one next,” he said.

I blinked. “But I haven’t finished the first.”

He shrugged. “Some stories don’t end. They echo.”

Before I could say more, someone across the room called his name and he rose without another word, leaving the red book on the table between us like an unopened door.

The café buzzed in that lazy campus way, half-full of students pretending to read and pretending not to look at anyone. Sunlight washed through the tall windows. Conversation hummed in the background.

I sat with the green book in front of me, closed. I couldn’t finish it. It sat there like a stopped heartbeat. I wasn’t ready to know; not if it ended in darkness, or with a goodbye.

I ran my fingers along the edge of the pages.

“Good book?” someone asked with a low, amused voice.

I looked up. Forgot how to speak.

He was tall, simply dressed, coffee in one hand. Devastating smile.

Not possible, I thought.

“It’s… intense,” I said. “Beautiful. Sad. I haven’t finished it.”

He nodded, already settling at the next table. “Best kind,” he said. “The kind you’re afraid to finish.”

He glanced at the book, then at me.

“By the way,” he said, casual as anything, “I’m Veer.”

My heart stuttered.

I smiled — slow, unsure, full of something I couldn’t name.

“What’s your name?”

I looked at him, sunlight catching in his eyes.

“Louise,” I said. “It’s Louise.”