III 
Miranti & Nabanita, Kolkata, Present & Past 
 

Miranti was arrested on charges of abetment of murder. If the letters she wrote to Nabanita are proven to have incited the incident, Miranti would face a life sentence. Her husband’s lawyers, well-compensated for their efforts, worked tirelessly to secure her release, but seven days had passed without progress. Oddly, Miranti had come to feel at home in the confines of her cell. For the first time in years, she was free from the constant weight of responsibility. And in that relief, there was something unexpectedly refreshing. 
 
As she sat on the cold stone floor of her prison cell, her thoughts drifted back to her childhood days in Calcutta (Kolkata), 1978. 
 
Miranti and Nabanita had been inseparable since their earliest days. When Miranti’s father was transferred to Calcutta for work, the family moved there, and 10-year-old Miranti encountered Nabanita for the first time. She remembered it clearly. Nabanita, dangling from the edge of a terrace, a man dangling her by her ankle. Miranti had shrieked in horror, running to her father for help, but by the time he had reached the scene, the sky had opened up and Nabanita had disappeared. That night, Miranti was haunted by dreams of a girl plummeting from the terrace. 
 
The next day, Miranti saw Nabanita at school. Nabanita struggled with mathematics and English, and her father’s violent temper only worsened her difficulties. Miranti, always the diligent student, started tutoring her, and over time, they grew closer. 
 
As they entered adolescence, Nabanita blossomed into a striking young woman, and Miranti couldn’t help but admire her, especially her eyes - eyes that, to Miranti, seemed to hide a world of untold stories. Meanwhile, Miranti had become the intellectual one. Sharp, articulate, and self-assured. 
 
Over time, their relationship deepened. Miranti became a steady guiding force in Nabanita’s life, choosing her courses, advising on hairstyles, even deciding which boys to pursue. Nabanita trusted Miranti implicitly. But as they reached their final year of school, that trust began to fracture. Nabanita failed her exams, while Miranti passed with ease. Nabanita blamed Miranti, convinced that her guidance had been misdirected, that the topics Miranti had insisted on studying were irrelevant to the exams. The panic attack that followed, at the thought of facing her father's wrath over the failure,  shattered something within Nabanita and ended her friendship with Miranti. 
 
After school, Nabanita got married and was out of Miranti's sight. During a visit to her parents to say goodbye to her sick father in 1995, Miranti saw her again. This time, Nabanita stood on the same terrace where Miranti had first seen her, a dark bruise around her eye. The sight ignited something deep within Miranti, and she pushed aside the years of unresolved tension between them. 
 
‘Does your husband abuse you too?’ Miranti asked, the word too carrying an unexpected weight. 
 
‘I’m moving to Indonesia,’ Miranti continued, her voice softening. ‘Come with me. My husband will help you find a job there.’ 
 
Nabanita was taken aback. ‘Indonesia?’  

The thought swirled in her mind, but she didn’t ask further. Instead, she excused herself with barely a word and hurried downstairs, disappearing from Miranti’s life once more. 
 
It wasn’t until 30 years later, when Nabanita’s daughter moved to Indonesia, that their paths crossed again. Nabanita and her husband arrived to help their daughter settle in, and when the landlord appeared, a familiar face from the past emerged, reopening a chapter they thought had long been closed. 

 
IV 
Nabanita, Kolkata, 2024 

Agnihotri stood up from his desk, his mind clouded by the unfolding mystery. Was it a suicide, or had it been a murder? That was the central question gnawing at him. He stepped toward the window, seeking a moment of clarity, drawing in a breath of fresh air before lighting a cigarette. Then, with a sense of finality, he returned to the third letter. 
 
Dear Miranti, 

You must be thinking, ‘Ah, classic Nabanita, cutting off the friendship whenever she feels like it.’ But I assure you, that’s not what happened this time. I broke my arm. Slipped in the bathroom. Thank God it was only my arm, nothing worse. Otherwise, my husband would have truly been troubled. Now you see why I’m replying after almost two months? 
 
I was really happy to get your letter. I was wondering if you would write back to me or not. So, I cannot tell you how happy I was. I had a very hard time grappling with the guilt of missing out on your life. 

I had no difficulty understanding your English. My English has always been worse than yours. But it has also been the language of our friendship. You taught me English, helped me memorize Shakespeare and your beloved Keats. Now you’re telling me you’re not used to English anymore? What else from our childhood have you forgotten? What else have you grown unaccustomed to? I want to know. 
 
Meeting you again felt like a miracle. It felt like a second chance to fix something I’d let slip away 30 years ago, something life often doesn’t even give us the first chance to mend. How could I let it go? Maybe that’s why I’m trying to fit 30 years of unspoken words into these letters, telling you everything you weren’t there to witness. I hope you’ll keep your door open for me. 
 
When I met your husband in Indonesia, I never imagined he’d have anger issues. Though our time together was brief, I know how hard it is to judge a man in such a short span. Us women, we see sides of the men in our lives that the world never gets to witness. Is it love that we endure so much in our marriages, despite everything? Or are we biologically weak? When I heard about your husband 30 years ago, I thought, maybe, he must love you so much, giving you everything you never had. Perhaps, in my own way, I was happy for you, thinking you’d finally found someone who could return the love you’d always given to others. Miranti, I never knew you were in pain too. Take care of yourself. No one else will look after us women. 
 
And yes, lastly, I know you didn’t mean to poison him. It’s just your way of coping, of fabricating a life without him in your imagination, seeking temporary relief. I understand more than you think I do. After all, I am also a woman. 
 
Yours, 
Naby 

***

Agnihotri sat back, his mind churning with the weight of the letter. It was then that he picked up the phone and dialled Nabanita’s daughter. He needed to verify the timeline of the alleged fracture. 
 
‘There was no fracture. No bathroom incident,’ Nabanita’s daughter Rema replied, her voice cold but steady. 
 
Rema pressed on. ‘What’s the date of the letter?’ 
 
‘June 2nd,’ Agnihotri answered.  
 
There was a pause before she added, ‘That’s the day she came home from the mental asylum.’