I 
Nabanita, Kolkata, 2024 
 

The post-mortem report was supposed to reach the police station by 2pm. Although Inspector Agnihotri had been told that the victim died from poisoning, he waited for the official documents to arrive before notifying the police team in Indonesia. 

Agnihotri was a strong candidate for promotion, eyeing the coveted position of Head of Prison at the Tollygunge police station. This case was an opportunity to solidify his career. How he handled it could make or break his future. 

Sitting at his desk, a feeling of guilt crept up his spine. The thought that someone’s death could benefit his career left a bitter taste in his mouth. He shifted in his chair, trying to shake it off, but the sensation lingered. With a deep breath, he reached for the letters. 

A series of letters exchanged between Nabanita, the wife of Debashish Chatterjee—the patriarch of the revered Chatterjee household, and an Indonesian woman named Miranti, lay before him. The letters, tucked carefully inside old books and hidden within the drawers of an antique writing desk, had been written in a delicate hand, the ink still fresh. Some had even been found beneath Miranti's mattress in Indonesia. These letters were key evidence in the case. 

Agnihotri sifted through them, trying to piece together a timeline. The investigation hung suspended in a thick, uneasy silence. When the police arrived at the crime scene, Nabanita’s body showed signs of a violent struggle. Her wrists bore marks of restraint, and a wound on her head and around her eye pointed to a brutal attack. Her hair had been chopped off haphazardly and scattered across the room. A pair of scissors lay just inches from her hand.  
 
Agnihotri unfolded the first letter, dated January 25, 2024. 

Hello Miranti, 

How are you? I hope this letter finds you in good health. It’s been years since I last wrote, and I must admit, I’ve forgotten how to put pen to paper. The last time I wrote was to my mother, just three years after my marriage, to tell her I was expecting my daughter, Rema. Now, all my hands seem to know are household chores. 

It feels strange, this letter after all these years. When my daughter first took us house hunting and we came to your house, your voice seemed oddly familiar. And when you appeared in front of me, I was suddenly transported back 30 years, even though my body remained in the present. 

Maybe I owe you an apology. I couldn't accept that my marriage was a failure. I refused to see it, although you saw right through it. I became fixated on proving you wrong—proving that my husband wasn’t abusive, proving that he loved me, proving that I was happy. That’s why I chose to stay in it and not come away with you to Indonesia when you had asked me 30 years ago.  
 
But look at how life has turned out. My daughter is now your tenant. I hope you’ll be merciful to her. If you hold any grudge against me, please don’t take it out on her. I hope you can forgive me. 

I never told my mother-in-law that her granddaughter lives in a Muslim household, eating food prepared by a Muslim woman. She would have exploded. My mother-in-law, who herself migrated from Bangladesh during the partition, converted to Hinduism upon marriage. Since then, she’s developed a deep-rooted hatred for the Muslim community, a bitterness that only she can understand. Maybe it is her attempt at finding a sense of identity in a new land, afterall hatred does a better job than love at uniting people. I know this hatred is nothing new for you. When you used to stay in Kolkata, you faced it so many times. Remember the time I cried when my mother called you a religious slur? But you were so strong, you stood face to face with her. You have always been the stronger one, Miranti. 

I’ll end this letter by saying that you were right all along. I should have listened to you. Now, I’m lost with no way out. Maybe I should have chosen a love marriage instead of an arranged one. Maybe things would have been right then? But life took an unexpected turn when I failed school, and I had no other choice. 

Enough about me, tell me about you. What have I missed in the last three decades? 

Please write back to me. The address is on the back. I can’t risk talking on the phone or on Facebook. 

Your childhood friend, Naby 

***

As Agnihotri read through the letter, it grew more haunting with each line. The seemingly perfect life of Nabanita and her family began to unravel. He wondered, had he understood correctly? Was Nabanita’s husband, Debashish, truly an abuser? 

He read the letter again. And again. Each time, the message became clearer. 

Shuffling through the papers, he called his partner, Inspector Mondal. 

‘Would you believe me if I told you Debashish Chatterjee abused his wife?’ 

‘I’ve never seen a more philanthropic man than him,’ Mondal replied. ‘So no, I don’t believe it.’ 

‘I found letters from his wife. She claimed he abused her.’ 

‘Are you going to believe that madwoman?’ Mondal’s voice was dismissive. ‘She was admitted to a mental hospital a few months ago. I was on duty. She’s crazy.’ 

‘I think I need to speak with their daughter. My gut tells me this case is more complicated than it appears.’ 

‘Agnihotri, remember last time you followed your instincts? You were transferred. Tread carefully.’ 

II 
Miranti, Jakarta, 2024 

Inspector Agnihotri leaned back in his chair, the sound of the ceiling fan a distant hum against the oppressive silence that enveloped the room. The letters, with their faint traces of vulnerability and hidden remorse, seemed to swirl in the air around him. Their neat handwriting concealed words that carried the weight of secrets, only fully understood by the women who wrote them. As his hand reached for the next letter, the door creaked open. A young officer stood in the doorway, holding a sealed envelope. 

Agnihotri nodded, momentarily distracted from the letters. 

‘Sir, the post-mortem report,’ the officer said, handing over the envelope with a formal salute. 

Agnihotri took the report, glanced at it briefly, then set it aside, his gaze returning to the stack of letters on his desk. He carefully untied the string and unfolded the paper. 

The next letter was dated three weeks after the previous one. The tone was calmer, yet beneath it lay an unmistakable undercurrent of something darker, something almost resigned. 

Dear Nabanita, 

It feels strange to receive a letter from you after so many years. Regardless, I am glad you decided to write.  

I hope you can understand my letter, as I’ve not written in English for a long while. After all, I’ve been living in Jakarta for over thirty years. 

I am also a mother, and your daughter is like my own daughter. I will never let our past dictate my behaviour towards her. You can be assured your daughter is safe with me. And there is nothing to forgive, my friend. I know you had no other choice. Let us keep the past behind us. 

I asked your daughter about you a few times, but she’s always so busy. It seems she doesn’t have much time for conversation. I tell her to rest, but she insists that rest is for the weak. She’s so stubborn and funny, just like her mother! But I am grateful that sometimes she still makes the pulao rice. I used to love it during our school recess. I would always look forward to the day you’d bring it for lunch. 

I’m not surprised about your mother-in-law. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that fear of the unknown always seems stronger than the desire for understanding. Perhaps that’s what’s happening with her. Sometimes, history is so powerful that it makes people forget kindness and remember only pain. She came to India, changed her faith, yet she can’t let go of the past. It’s as if she wants others to feel the same torment, even as she forgets her own. 

What you said about your marriage, how you should have chosen a love marriage instead of an arranged one made me laugh. What is love, really? Is love supposed to feel like a burden? I may have chosen what I thought I wanted a long time ago, but now I am no longer in a place of ‘want.’ You’ve seen my husband’s health. He’s not doing well. He fell ill some time ago, and it stripped away his patience and pride. He used to be busy with work and his friends (and God knows how many women), but now he can’t do anything for himself. 

I haven’t been able to sleep because when he’s in pain, he demands that I get up and care for him. Every night. And when I tell him I need rest because of my throbbing headache, he says, ‘A wife’s illness is nothing compared to the husband’s.’ 

So, is this love, Nabanita? Is it love when I think about poisoning him with food his body can’t digest? Is it love when I wish he would just die instead of shouting at me every morning? Sometimes the smell of his breath hits me before the shouting does, and I think, maybe if he died in his sleep, I could finally rest too.  

Oh, I’ve been talking nonsense! A good wife is not supposed to think like that, right? 

So, back to your letter, Nabanita. I look forward to your next letter.