72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAH2eV0yzmK
Anil Babu lives alone. With no family of his own, he plays every role in his solitary household. At 45, he has never married—and he has no desire to. His faith in love, trust, and companionship has long since eroded.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPBE4kz2YdM
Each day follows a strict rhythm: wake up, cook, eat, go to the office. On the way home, he stops by College Street, buys used books by the kilo, shops for groceries, cooks dinner, reads, and then drifts into sleep. A quiet life governed by routine.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlIkVAITrED
Then the lockdown strikes, upending everything.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3a3Fqfky1n
Now confined indoors, he finds solace in the books he had recently bought in bulk. One afternoon, after lunch, he picks up a volume from the stack. As he opens the book, a folded letter tumbles out.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGQLhJqSLJQ
In earlier days, people often hid letters inside books—love notes tucked safely between the pages to avoid a prying eye. This seemed to be one of those. He gently unfolds the paper and begins reading.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ08G4rlXsTb
The letter is from a girl to her boyfriend. She writes of a misunderstanding—an argument that erupted over her male friend, leading to a falling out. But she doesn’t want the relationship to end. She’s willing to sacrifice the friendship if that’s what it takes to prove her love.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2RBJAsnV5U
She includes a recently installed landline number at her home and urges him to call if he still feels the same. It’s clear she hadn’t intended to end things—just mend them.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb6QjVyYYCn
Anil Babu finishes reading and murmurs to himself, “So not all women are like her… not like my girlfriend, Mousumi. This girl truly loved him. They must be reunited.” He assumes she forgot to post the letter—perhaps she thought she had, or someone interrupted her as she was finishing it.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAllWOknjap
But there’s no name. No address. Neither the girl’s nor the boy’s. It’s as if the letter itself was left incomplete, tucked away in haste. It feels nearly two decades old.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQwuy2SS4gs
Anil Babu wonders: Is she still waiting? Did they ever reunite? Or did they live their lives apart—two hearts fractured by a moment of doubt?
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡta52k8x9Ag
The questions wedge themselves into the silence of his days. He has to know.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLDZRr5Tu2u
Then he remembers: the letter mentioned her landline number.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvyUMkwm16H
With a surge of courage, he dials the number. To his surprise, it still exists. In the age of smartphones, the landline lives on. A child answers.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡicmAiFkCyC
In a gentle voice, Anil asks, “How many women live in your house, little one?”
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB5EATS3SIw
She replies, “My mom, me, and my grandma. My aunt Mou used to stay here too, but now she’s married and lives with her in-laws.” Then the call drops.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEYGWsUXFY9
He tries calling again, but the line won’t connect.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAxGY9pUEEL
“Mou,” he whispers. “So this was Mou’s letter. But is that her full name… or short for something?” His heart races.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRgs8Iqb0FN
Mousumi.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUOWxO20XXu
He freezes.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPevsnsI2ju
Could this be her letter? His Mousumi?
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS5G1CDDVAa
Rummaging through an old telephone directory, he searches for the number. And there it is—registered to the same address as Mousumi’s home.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOV8t4XhszH
It feels like the sky has collapsed around him.
72Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPmjUW7nSNA
A misunderstanding, a virus of suspicion, had brought lockdown into his own life twenty years ago. And perhaps, it was he who left a letter unread.
and then Add to home screen.