Shubrato returned home tired after a long day at work. As a thirty-year-old chartered accountant, the end of March was always a demanding time for him.
With a heavy sigh, he acknowledged that today marked the last day of March, and starting tomorrow, things would finally ease up. He couldn’t help but wish that his wife, Arundhati, were home with him; she had gone to visit her mother last week.
It had barely been seven months since their wedding, and they had relocated to Mumbai shortly after. While Shubrato focused on his career, Arundhati was searching for a job that suited her.
“I’ll be swamped during March and won’t have much time for us. Why don’t you spend a fortnight at your parents’ place to enjoy some time away?” he had suggested, feeling guilty about her potential loneliness, especially since she hadn’t been back to her home in Ratnagiri since they’d tied the knot.
Arundhati was an upbeat, sociable person who had made plenty of friends, but when Shubrato proposed the idea of a visit home, a wave of joy washed over her. She yearned for the familiarity of her childhood home.
Now, as Shubrato stepped through the front door, to his surprise, he noticed a collection of letters scattered on the floor, clearly slipped through the gap under the door. Curiosity piqued, he couldn’t resist the urge to open them before even taking a shower. The letters bore numbers from 1 to 10.
He began with the letter marked 1.
“I am writing this letter to tell you that I never liked you.”
Just a single line–no signature. Puzzled, he flipped the letter to check the stamp, it belonged to the post office in his vicinity.
Relieved, he let go of the thought that it could be Arundhati.
He moved on to the next letter.
“There was no love between you and me.”
Again, just a line with no signature, sharing the same stamp.
The subsequent letters, from 3 to 9, continued this trend of anti-love sentiments.
“I can’t stand your hairstyle.”
“Your obnoxious cologne gives me a headache.”
Anxiously, he opened the final letter, number 10. He noticed a white sheet covering the main text, secured with a flap.
“Do not open the flap until it’s 12 AM, if you truly love your wife. She trusts you.”
Shubrato was utterly bewildered. Only eight minutes remained until midnight, and it felt like an eternity.
‘Should I just peek at what’s underneath? How would she even know?’ she’s away,’ he mused. However, he hesitated. The word ‘trust’ holding him back until the clock struck twelve.
With a mix of excitement and impatience, he lifted the flap.
“Happy birthday, dear hubby, and happy April Fool’s Day!” Arundhati had drawn laughing emoticons all around the message.
The letters were all a trick—what had seemed like harsh criticisms flipped into declarations of love. “What are you waiting for? Pick up the phone and call me—I’m waiting at Anjali’s house downstairs!”