Satsangi - (A Search For Truth)

CHAPTER 31

Agastya had gone through every message and call log on Akhil's phone, carefully examining each for any trace of information that could shed light on the situation. But to his frustration, every message and call from the mysterious sender had been set to delete automatically once opened. Despite his best efforts, all he could retrieve were fragments—pieces of a larger puzzle that hinted at a clue but never revealed the full story.

Anusha and Manasa leaned forward, watching him intently. The room felt charged with their shared tension and curiosity. Manasa's eyes glinted with urgency as she finally broke the silence.

“So, what’s the clue, Divya? Did they find them?” she asked, her voice betraying her anxious hope.

I hesitated before responding, feeling the weight of their anticipation. "I’d like to know that too," I admitted. But after glancing back down at the journal in my hands, I sighed and added, "That was the last entry in this journal."

With a mixture of frustration and determination, I closed the journal I had just finished reading aloud. The final entry seemed tantalizingly incomplete, leaving us with more questions than answers.

Manasa, undeterred, reached out and took the journal from me. She turned it over in her hands, her fingers tracing the worn leather cover with a reverent touch. Then, with a quick motion, she flipped to the last entry—the only entry. Her frown deepened as she scanned the blank pages that followed, as though hoping the words would materialize on their own. She even tried shaking the journal, her fingers rifling through each page one by one, but no hidden notes or clues fell out. With a sigh, she finally passed it to Anusha, her shoulders sagging in defeat.

"That's it, I guess," Manasa muttered, sounding resigned. "I don’t see anything else."

Anusha took the journal from her, her eyes narrowing with focused intent. Her fingers examined the cover and pages with a practiced thoroughness. She tilted the journal, checked the edges, and carefully ran her fingers along the binding. I couldn’t help but watch her with growing curiosity.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I asked, genuinely intrigued by her precision.

“Hidden messages, maybe,” she replied, her voice carrying a spark of excitement. “In archaeology, it’s almost an unspoken rule to check the spine or binding of any book or journal we come across. Sometimes people hide things in there—especially those who know how we work. And Uncle was one of us.”

The room went still, her words creating a newfound tension. She was right; if anyone could hide a message where no one would think to look, it would be him. He understood the methods of archaeologists and knew their habits.

We all held our breath, watching Anusha as her fingers delicately worked along the spine of the journal. Then, suddenly, she froze, her eyes widening with excitement.

“Wait,” she whispered, her fingers carefully sliding out a small, folded piece of paper, so thin and flat that it had been hidden perfectly within the spine.

Anusha handed the fragile note to me, her hands trembling slightly with the thrill of discovery. I took it carefully, unfolding the paper with slow, deliberate movements to avoid tearing it. Everyone leaned in, their gazes fixed on the note.

I took a deep breath and steadied myself, holding the letter in my trembling hands. I knew it held answers, but I was afraid of what I would find within. With a heavy heart, I began to read.

"Dear Diya,

If you’re reading this letter, it means I am no longer in this world. I know that my actions may have left you with questions, maybe even resentment. I won't ask for your forgiveness, Diya; that is something only you can decide. All I want to say is: your father was not a coward. Whatever I did, I did with conviction, guided by the principles I lived by. I may not regret my choice, but I do regret that I left you behind, perhaps without the answers you needed.

I faced a difficult crossroads. There were two paths before me, though I knew one would mean a safer, more predictable life, but I couldn’t go against my conscience and work for them. My decision might seem selfish, but I chose the path that I believed was right, even if it meant leaving everything I cherished behind. My every choice was driven by one purpose—to protect you and everyone I loved. I almost lost you once, Diya, and the very thought of losing you again was unbearable. I hope, with time, you’ll come to understand the reasons that led me here.

By now, you may have pieced together most of the story. I know you might be on a journey, a quest to find the people who are responsible. If that is the path you choose, you’ll need someone to stand by your side, Diya—someone who can help you in ways that I can’t anymore. He is your soldier, your armor, your guide. Just as the Pandavas relied on Sri Krishna to navigate the greatest battle of their lives, you too will need his guidance. I believe you’ll know him when you meet him—trust me. You were destined to find each other because you both share a purpose. And that purpose will lead you to him.

There’s something else I wanted to say to you, things I couldn’t bring myself to share while I was alive. Please convey my regards to everyone. I regret not being there to cook for Manasa and Anusha when they asked me. I should have made time, but now that chance is gone, and I feel the sting of that regret. And about Rehaan—I bought a watch for him, a gift that I never got a chance to give. If you find it in my closet, please give it  to him. He always admired my watch and used to pester me to give it to him, but he doesn’t know how much it means to me. You see, it was a gift from you—the very first thing you bought for me with your own earnings. That watch holds more memories than I can put into words.

Diya, remember this above all else: you were, and always will be, the best thing that ever happened to us. Your presence brought light and joy into our lives in ways that words could never capture. What your mother and I feel for you goes beyond mere love; love almost feels too small a word to contain it. We will always be watching over you, my dear. Take care of yourself and everyone you hold dear. And please, don't be too hard on yourself—you have always carried too much on your shoulders.

Your father, Srinivastav."

As my eyes scanned the final words, they blurred with tears, smudging the ink on the paper. I felt Anusha and Manasa's arms wrap around me, pulling me into their embrace. Silent tears slid down their cheeks as they held me close, sharing in my sorrow. For a moment, we stayed like that, united by grief and comfort, letting the weight of the letter sink in.

In that quiet, fragile moment, I could almost hear his voice, gentle and firm, telling me to be strong. I knew, somehow, that he was watching over me, urging me to live fully, to follow my path, and to hold his memory close to my heart. And in that memory, I found the strength to go on.