𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬.
Love is hope for the hopeless and sin for the saint. Love makes you do things you never intended to do, but it's distinct when you hold hands and promise to behold each oth...
By the time you read this, I hope you've already consoled her. If not, stop wasting time and go to her now. I know that after reading my letter, you will come to meet me. I am waiting for you, Karhan Agarkar.
But that's not why I wrote this letter.
47 tears. Forty-seven. Tears. Each one she shed was for that garden. Every drop is a testament to her pain, and her pain is a debt this world cannot repay. But you can.
There's a minister-general behind this, isn't there? His factory is a headless serpent that thrives on the misery of others. For each tear she shed, bring me its head. Destroy those 47 factory headquarters. Reduce them to ashes, and make sure their ruins are a lesson, not just a warning. I want 47 teardrops of them buried in the ground they desecrated.
When you're done, return to her. Rebuild her garden. I don't care what it takes, but you have 47 hours. Find 47 flowers- different ones, rare ones, ones that whisper her name- and plant them. That garden isn't just a patch of earth. It's her memory of her mother, her father, her safe place. And you will give it back to her.
This is not a request. This is not an order. This is a statement of mine. Do not fail her, Karhan Agarkar. Because if you fail her, you fail me.
And when someone fails me, I cannot guarantee what kind of person I will become next.
When the work is done, let her know it was built by her brother but ordered by her prisoner. Tell her the prisoner is always watching, always protecting, even from his captivity. Tell her the prisoner never forgets her tears.
Signed, Prisoner 704 (Criminal, The Central Jail)
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I stood frozen at the entrance of the garden, my breath catching in my throat. The garden-the one Papa had planted for Ma after she passed away-was unrecognizable. The vibrant hibiscus bushes were trampled, the jasmine vines torn, and the roses Ma loved so much were scattered.
Tears burned my eyes as I stepped further in, my shoes crunching on shattered flowerpots. The swing where Ma used to sit was overturned, its chains snapped like fragile threads. It felt as if someone had reached into my chest and crushed my heart with their bare hands.
"Who would do this?" I whispered, my voice trembling as I knelt to pick up a broken rose. Its petals were bruised, just like me.
I didn't hear Karhan Bhaiyya approach until he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Nahella." His voice was soft, careful, as if I might break under the weight of my grief.
I turned to face him, my tears spilling over. "Why, Bhaiyya? Why would anyone do this? It was Ma's... it was all I had left of her! And Papa." My voice cracked, and the broken rose fell from my hand.
