Five Letters

My dearest one,

The story that you ask me to recount to you has been one you’ve desired since you were old enough to eavesdrop on my conversations with your mother. I know your father intends to hand over the reins of the family business to you once you’ve finished your studies and it is your right to know the truth.

My sister, Kashvi, was the eldest of us five girls, following the still births of two sons before her. Consequently, she was the light of my father’s life. My grandfather believed she was the gift of god to make up for the two sons our family lost. She certainly was blessed in every way- strikingly beautiful and witty.

I was different. Quieter, less dynamic. I happily got married at eighteen, whereas Didi was exempted from this expectation and chose to work alongside my grandfather, the village sarpanch.

In hindsight, the oddities began in early May, following my wedding in April. First, it was Didi’s missing ring- her most precious possession. Didi was never careless, but losing small items was a common occurrence in a house as big as ours. My father dismissed the case when he found out, suggesting that she had simply dropped it somewhere. We never saw that ring again.

More of my sister’s things disappeared that month- her favourite phulkari dupatta, then a saree, and then a good deal of gold coins and money.

The atmosphere in our home tensed up. After my marriage, my grandfather wished for my uncle’s daughters to follow suit, so suitors were frequenting the halls each week. Everyone tried their best to ignore the robberies and keep things running smoothly- until the night Kashvi Didi nearly died.

Didi was strolling through the gardens when the huge mango tree in our lawn fell over, nearly crushing her. Thank Waheguru, she survived! When our father inspected the tree, he found its trunk was partially sawed off.

My grandfather was livid. It was apparent that they who were stealing from my sister were the ones behind this as well, and that the culprit had to be from our own walls.

The next evening Didi had vanished. Her clothes, jewellery, room all left behind in the same condition as they were the day before- but she was gone. A search party of 150 men looked for her everywhere- not even sparing the five neighbouring villages- but it was an attempt in vain for she had flown away like a ghost in the summer wind.

Everything went downhill after that. My grandfather blamed himself for not being able to protect her. He ordered a thorough investigation into all the members of the household and found out the family business had been riding in loss for months because of my uncle’s carelessness, and he had tried to cover it up by bribing the accountants. What everyone believed was that my uncle was behind the robberies, using the gold to cover up the losses, and that when Kashvi Didi found out, they killed her. My grandfather immediately handed over the business to my father- but no one trusted the family that could murder its own daughter.

I know you’ve heard that she’s dead. That’s what the whole village believed. But that is not true. The body was never found.

The murder rumours were all a gimmick to pretend as if my sister was just another piece of gold stolen from our family.

The way she vanished, leaving no traces and no trails had her cleverness written all over it. She ran away of her own accord- never to speak to us again.

I do not know why she did something so wrong.

That is the truth, my love. I decided to tell it to you because I see in you the same brilliance and character I saw in my sister.

Make something out of what I’ve told you. You alone can do it.

Yours eternally,

Dadi

Dadi,

Though I had never met her, I always thought of your sister as the victim, the poor young girl who was killed impulsively, or out of envy. But to think that she consciously chose this defamation for her kin! She knew people would presume her dead. If she wanted them to think she’d run away, she would have taken her things, or some money.

Did she not know the kind of allegations that would fall on the family? Yes, they were a long time ago, but the vines of that scandal wrap themselves around my family’s social image even today.

With such fury I have tossed this matter over in my head this past week…even the beauty of the havelli does not distract me, for I can only see it as the house where this calamity took place.

But I wanted to know more. She could not just leave, for no rhyme or reason, not if she was as intelligent as you claim her to be.

So, yesterday I struck up a conversation with Kaka, the old gardener. I asked him if he knew where she’d gone, how she’d done it. A tawdry smirk drew on his wrinkled prune-like face. He knew. But the old man didn’t budge. I offered him money (which was futile), then I demanded he tell me (this was quite rude, forgive me)- but he said he was to retire in a week, and that I should consider him a servant no longer.

Then his granddaughter, no older than twelve, came to hand him his mail. That’s when I caught the slightest glimpse of it- handwriting, just like yours.

My instincts howled- supported by no logic and no evidence, I knew in an instant that it was a letter by Kashvi Dadi.

The rest was not difficult. I bribed the granddaughter (with some Lindt chocolate from the fridge) to let me into Kaka’s hut when he was out. There, I found a letter from Kashvi Arora.

From a house in Shimla.

For days the address has been boring into my mind, but I do not wish to meet her. What will I say?

I’ve decided I want nothing more to do with this grotesque piece of history.

Yours forever,

Diksha

My dear,

I must tell you to make good use of the address and write to her. What have you to lose by doing so? Besides, I believe I may know now why she ran away.

Do not think I have not noticed the way you are treated by your school mates. The way your mother, the most intelligent and beautiful amongst her siblings, is often the butt of every joke. This is the real curse of our family, not the silent glares we get on the street. Do you think what Kashvi Didi faced was any different? Ask yourself- were you in her place-would you not wish to run away? Do you not wish to do so today, too, amidst your cousins and schoolmates who fail to understand you?

I have one more thing to say to you; do not for a second blame my sister for the so-called ‘misfortunes’ or unhappiness of this family. Her disappearance was nothing more than an excuse for my father to shirk away his responsibilities and wallow in self-pity, and his grandson did the same after him. Yes, people did not trust us for a while, but with the new generation came a new market. Bygones were left to be bygones long ago. There is always a worse story waiting to be printed, and the masses have short memories. Today, who other than our closest confidants knows of this matter? You have studied the ways of business- can you not see that there is no fundamental issue in ours except for the lazy arses who are running it?

You should try to understand her reasons- my sister is a woman of logic, and I am certain her decision was not impulsive.

Think with a calm mind,

Dadi

Dear Ms Arora,

We’ve never met. I am a member of the family you left many years ago. I can understand why you would not want to read ahead of this sentence. But if you do, please answer my questions, for I ask them out of respect and genuine curiosity.

I have been told you are a brilliant woman of logic and a good mind, so I ask you your reasons, that night, for running away. It was certainly very well planned, for a search party of 150 men could not find you.

But whatever your reasons may have been, how could you do this to your family? Did you not pity the heartbreak of your parents or the shame that your family faced after?

My grandmother tells me you were the envy of the town. I know that that is not an easy position to be in. To be the object of someone’s envy has been the most trying and tiresome aspect of my life, too. I wonder, is that why you left? Were you tired of being hated? But was that alone, reason enough to run away?

I would be lying if I said running away from it all doesn’t seem tempting, but I couldn’t do that to my family.

If you are curious, I am the granddaughter of your sister, Sushila.

Yours truly,

Diksha

Dear Diksha,

It is true, I was not going to read your letter.

But no one has ever asked me why I did what I did. So, today, I will tell you.

My grandfather’s blatant favouritism for me made me very unpopular amongst my sisters and cousins. They envied the opportunities I was given- a place on the village council, college education, the flood of suitors that entered our house the second I reached marriageable age, and, despite the last point, no pressure from the elders to get married.

I agree my grandfather was unjust, but what they failed to see was that they were all given the same opportunities. They all were sent to school, but they dropped out because studying was too hard, whereas I only went to college because I topped the 12th grade, and I was given a place on the council because I was interested in finding ways for the village to progress. As for the suitors- perhaps I was the most beautiful- but those things are out of anyone’s control.

Because of this situation, my aunts and cousins were brutal. Soon, childhood envy had turned into hatred. The kind of backhanded comment that one is forced to forgive the ‘elders’ for, or the hurtful joke that I was told I did not have the sense of humour to understand- it all piled up inside of me as aggression.

But I didn’t let it show in front of my father or grandfather, and my insights in our evening debates and discussions were calmy delivered, with the ladylike mannerisms I was taught. However, constant internal fight never died down and each time I made sure to never let my emotions cloud my mind.

But after Sushila’s wedding, it worsened. My grandfather was pressuring the other daughters of the home to get married. They didn’t want to get married. They, too, wanted a career, and independence, though they refused to work for it. Soon, against their wishes, our grandfather set the wedding dates. Yet he didn’t say anything to me- as my responsiblities on the village council had recently expanded -which made them furious.

The insults grew. Whenever my parents or grandfather weren’t present, I was made to endure a spew of degrading and inhumane insults that made my ears burn. I would retort, sometimes- but that would only make the fight accelerate.

So, I kept quiet. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.

Despite all this, I only decided to leave home after the accident. Some accident that was.

The culprits clearly were my cousins- they thought grandfather would call off the wedding if I was injured. While I was struck down, they crept up on me, believing I was unconscious. I saw the hatred in their eyes as they orchestrated that incident.

But it was not a likewise hatred that egged me to run away, it was fear. I was, for the first time, afraid for my life in my own home.

Alongside fear, what broke my heart was that hatred. Those who could be such good friends to each other, who shared such strong love, who had brought so much laughter and joy in our family, had turned into demons because of me. True, I wasn’t the direct cause, but in that moment I felt the family would be much happier without me- even more so if I ran away, so my cousins could have whatever glory they saw in my life all to themselves.

The only thread holding me back was my love for my parents, so when my mother looked at me with tearful eyes the night I nearly died and begged me to run away, I did so without a second thought.

After I ran away, my life there ended. I would never be accepted back.

As for your first question; I stayed undiscovered as I knew the one place these many men, all in the height of their emotions, would not have thought to check was the house itself. A house as large as ours had many places suitable for me to hide. My mother and Kaka (who knew my truth) helped me. I was comfortable in the granary, and on the evening of the third day I bid my mother a teary farewell, and I left quietly. My mother had made arrangements for me to stay at her brother’s vacant bungalow in Shimla.

I live a good life here. My mother had given me most of her gold (she told my grandfather it was stolen with the rest of our things) which was enough for me to afford a living. I worked at a small school for three years, and after having collected enough through a modest living and clever trade, I opened my own school.

I never married. I didn’t feel I deserved the happiness of a home when I’d wrecked one myself.

But I have close friends. You will have them too, one day.

They are accomplished people, who see me as a counterpart who has worked as hard as them and deserve as much as them.

I may never have met you, but I want to tell you this- if you’ve been through even a fraction of what I went through, don’t do what I did. True, my life now is much better than it would have been if I stayed in that small village, but you must fight.

Because if you run away, you will let every single person who felt you to be underserving win.

Don’t let those below you scare you and drive you away.

It will be difficult. It will make you feel uninvited in your own home, as if you don’t have a seat at the table you built yourself. But remember one thing- no one is born with a place in this world. You make your place, and it can be as small and insignificant or as tremendous and impactful as you will it to be.

It will seem unfair. Everyone else will seem much happier- but take this to be your training. If you have a gift, these experiences are something you need to face to make the most of it.

Remember, it is not the people around you that you have to fight. It is your own emotions, the feeling of anger, rejection and self pity.

It is not easy to be brilliant, and more so to be a brilliant woman. But these gifts come with a price- one you are capable of paying, for that is why they landed in your lap in the first place.

And lastly, do not blame yourself for things out of your control. Just because you have the foresight to understand the future consequences does not mean you are responsible for them.

I hope these words are meaningful to you. They are but advice from an old crone living in the hills, but you can think of them as the words I wanted to hear when I was your age. Perhaps if I had, we wouldn’t be here today.

Lots of love and all the lost hugs,

Kashvi Arora

Will you call me Dadi? The thought of it is delightful.