A quiet rural story of farmers, faith, and a letter from the border

 

The noon sun stood mercilessly over the fields.

Kunjan swung his sickle through the wheat, one stroke after another. The dry stalks fell obediently, brushing against his ankles before settling into small golden piles. Hot wind rushed across the land, carrying dust, broken leaves, and the faint smell of dry soil. His kurta clung to his back, soaked in sweat. Each breath felt heavier than the last.

Across the fields, other farmers worked the same way—bent, silent, steady. From a distance, they looked like moving shadows stitched into the earth. No one spoke. No one complained. The sun did not care.

Kunjan straightened his back for a moment and wiped his forehead with the edge of his cloth. His eyes searched the horizon, where the neem trees trembled under the heat.

That was when he saw Rukmani.

She walked carefully between the narrow ridges of soil, a steel tiffin balanced on her hip. Her saree was pulled over her head, shielding her face from the sun. Even from far away, Kunjan could recognize her walk—slow, measured, familiar like an old song.

She stopped near the field steps.

“Come,” she called softly. “Eat something.”

Kunjan placed the sickle down and walked toward her. He washed his hands at the pond, the water warm but comforting. Without thinking, he wiped his wet hands on the edge of her saree. She did not protest. She never did.

She handed him a glass of water. He drank deeply, some spilling down his chin. The rotis were still warm, wrapped carefully to hold their softness.

“Did you feed the cows?” he asked between bites.

“Yes,” Rukmani said. “And I cleaned the shed.”

She watched him eat, her eyes lingering on the deep lines carved into his face by years of sun and responsibility.

“I told you not to work in this heat,” she added quietly. “Morning and evening are enough.”

Kunjan nodded. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully.

“After our son’s marriage,” he said, “I’ll stop heavy farming. We’ll keep the cows. Give the land on partnership.”

Rukmani’s face softened. A smile appeared—small, hopeful.

“Then I’ll rest,” she said. “I’ll go to the temple twice a day.”

Kunjan looked at her and smiled back, just for a second. Then the sun reminded them both where they were.

The next morning arrived quietly.

Kunjan was feeding the cows when Rukmani set curd in the courtyard. The air was calmer, birds hopping along the boundary wall. Life followed its usual rhythm.

Then a bicycle bell rang.

The sound cut through the stillness like a sudden thought.

The postman stood at the gate, adjusting his bag, his eyes searching for something inside.

“Kaka,” he called. “A letter.”

Rukmani froze. The bowl in her hands trembled.

“From whom?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

The postman looked up. “From the border.”

The word landed heavily in the courtyard.

Rukmani stepped closer to Kunjan and gripped his arm. Her fingers pressed hard, as if she needed something solid to hold her upright.

“Read it,” she whispered. “Quickly.”

The postman unfolded the letter carefully, smoothing its creases.

“Dear Ma and Papa,” he began.

Rukmani’s breath caught.

“I am safe. I got promoted. I’ll earn more now. Don’t work so hard.”

Kunjan’s eyes moved to the sky.

“I’m coming home this Diwali,” the postman continued. “Ma, make rabdi and lassi for me.”

The letter ended.

Silence filled the space between them.

Rukmani slowly lowered herself onto the threshold. Her legs felt weak, as if they had forgotten their duty. She pressed her palms together—not in prayer, but in relief.

Kunjan did not speak. He stood still, listening to the wind move through the trees.

For the first time in many days, it felt cool.

This is not just a village story.
It is the story of millions of parents who wake up before dawn, work under cruel suns, and place their faith in letters instead of guarantees.

It is about farmers whose hands feed the nation, and soldiers whose courage protects it—connected by invisible threads of sacrifice.

Kunjan does not say he is proud.
Rukmani does not cry loudly.

Because real strength often speaks in silence.

Sometimes, the biggest relief does not come with celebration.
It comes with a cool wind on a tired afternoon.

And sometimes, a single letter is enough to make the world feel lighter.

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