The Letter

It was just another nameless day of the week- Tuesday, or Wednesday, or one of those useless Sundays- when even the cats got bored of napping.

Lately to Mrs. Bhatia, all days seemed to blend in one. They all started with the same mornings, when she would force herself out of bed, bathe then pray, or pray then bathe; not that it mattered much, anyways. Mr. Bhatia would get served a perfunctory breakfast, and be packed off to the garage, where the forever broken down car promised more entertainment than the prospect of human interaction. Mrs. Bhatia would return to her needles, and the sweater that never seemed to get done. Lunch would be the same tasteless affair, and so would dinner.

Nights though, were another matter- for Mrs. Bhatia would rather spend the night awake than revisit the nightmares that seemed to plague her lately. The usual gory ones, or loud ones or the incredibly dark ones, all ending with the dreaded door bell and the post man at the door, and the official looking letter in his hand- they all ended the same way.  

So today was not unusual as well, as Mrs. Bhatia caught herself drifting off to sleep when she ought to pray. With a sigh, and blaming the breakfast, she decided to get back to her knitting, atleast she wont feel guilty if she dozed off doing that.

It was in the midst of this contemplation that Mrs. Bhatia’s greatest enemy called out to her- the doorbell; and what was worse, she could see the uniform from the window! Mrs. Bhatia sprang to her feet, did a full genuflection with a hammering heart and promised her gods to never doze off mid prayer- just let that not be the postman; or atleast not with THE LETTER! Eager to get to it though, before Mr. Bhatia did- she needed to be in control, whatever may come to pass- she rushed to the door and opened it to find the postman indeed; with a letter! ‘Oh God, let my son be fine, and I will never doze off again! Just spare him this once and I will never let it happen again!’ Oh why were letters so hard to open! And why cant I read without those blasted spectacles!

It seemed that she struggled forever, until the postman pried the letter from her hands, tore off the seal and handed it to her. And someone just handed her the spectacles, was that Mr. Bhatia? Nothing mattered at the moment, just the letter and what was written there.

Mrs. Bhatia took a deep breath, mounted the specs on her nose, and dared herself to read. A minute later she started sobbing in her hands.

But Mr. Bhatia knew these sobs were different, for he read over her shoulder, ‘Ma, the war is over! I am coming home!’

Dinner would not be bland tonight, he thought to himself with a smile.