Letters, Lanterns, and the Midnight Knock

Some journeys begin with a ticket, but the most enduring ones begin with a poem

             The storm in the desert left more than just grains of sand in our boots - it left silence, reflection, and a longing no tiffin could warm. That night, as lanterns flickered against canvas tents and the desert wind whispered what it had taken and returned, I found myself reaching for memories older than my uniform. Rajasthan's fury had receded, but another storm - a quieter, more personal one, stirred within me. The kind only letters, poems, and old train platforms could touch. Before there was the fog of war, there had been the fog of departure, and it began on a platform in Patiala with nothing more than twenty rupees and a magazine that would alter the rhythm of my soul.           

             The Patiala railway station was a cacophony of whistles, shouts, and the metallic clatter of iron wheels. Three of us stood there, newly recruited soldiers, clutching the pitiful remnants of our civilian lives: twenty rupees each, thin black blankets tucked under our arms, and the gnawing uncertainty of what lay ahead. The air smelled of coal smoke and sweat, the platform crowded with families bidding tearful farewells. My companions, Harpreet and Joginder, wore expressions oscillating between bravado and dread. Harpreet cracked a joke about the blankets being thinner than his grandmother’s patience, but his laughter faltered as the stationmaster bellowed the arrival of the Punjab Mail. 

             The train loomed like a steel beast, its engine hissing clouds of steam that swallowed the platform whole. We boarded silently, our boots thudding against the wooden floors of the third-class compartment. The benches were worn smooth by decades of travelers, the windows streaked with grime. I claimed the upper berth, craving solitude, while Harpreet and Joginder settled below, already striking up a conversation with a grizzled farmer carrying a sack of onions. 

             As the train lurched forward, I pressed my face to the glass, watching Patiala shrink into the horizon. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks became a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting. My gaze drifted to a small bookshop on the platform, its shelves crammed with colorful spines. A flash of red caught my eye, the December 1978 edition of ‘Nagmani’, its cover adorned with a sketch of a woman cradling a sheaf of wheat. Without thinking, I leaped down, dashed to the shop, and thrust a crumpled five-rupee note at the vendor. The magazine felt warm in my hands, its pages thick with stories and poems that smelled of home. 

            Back on the berth, I devoured the words. Punjabi script danced like familiar music, each story a balm for the ache in my chest. Then I found it, poet’s poem, "Maa Di Mitti" (Mother’s Soil). The verses were raw, unflinching: 

 "Her hands, cracked like monsoon earth, 

Still hold the scent of roti (bread) and jaggery. 

At dawn, she becomes the field, 

Her suit hem dragging through wheat, 

Her voice a lullaby for the land…" 

             Memories surged, my mother’s hands, calloused from grinding maize, her voice humming as she stitched my torn clothes. I could almost smell the woodsmoke from our hearth, hear the clang of her brass pots. Tears blurred the page. The train’s whistle wailed, a mournful echo of my own longing. 

            Fumbling for my notebook, I tore out a page. The pen shook as I copied the poet’s poem, adding my own trembling script: 

 

"Maa, today I read words that could have been yours. 

When the wind howls through this steel carriage, 

I hear you calling me home. 

Do the fields miss my footprints? 

Does the lantern still flicker by your cot?" 

            I sealed the letter, addressing it to our village, Wazir Bhullar. Harpreet glanced up as I climbed down.

             “Writing to your sweetheart?” he teased.

             “My mother,” I said, sharper than intended. He nodded, suddenly solemn. 

             Weeks later, her reply arrived at Ahmednagar Training Centre. My hands trembled as I read: 

             "Son, when Toshi read your letter aloud, we wept until the words dissolved. Your poem is now tucked into my prayer book, next to Guru Nanak’s hymns. The fields are barren without you, but your words water them…" 

             I folded the letter, pressing it to my chest. The training camp’s drills, marching, shooting, saluting, felt trivial compared to the weight of her grief. 

             The magazine held another treasure: a short story by Dalbir Chetan, I knew this tale. months earlier, on the banks of the Beas, I’d listened to him narrate it to a circle of enraptured villagers. His voice had been a low rumble, weaving myth into the rustle of reeds. Now, seeing his words in print felt like reclaiming a fragment of that golden afternoon. 

             “Nachhatar wants you in Beas,” my mother announced one day after returning from the bank, her eyes alight. “He’s with Dalbir Chetan at the bank.” 

             The name struck me like a thunderclap. Dalbir Chetan, the man whose stories haunted Nagmani’s pages, whom Amrita Pritam herself praised as “Punjab’s beating heart.” I’d scribbled fan letters to him, never daring to send them. 

             By 2:30 p.m., I stood outside the Central Bank of India, Beas, my pant-shirt well pressed, boots polished to a mirror shine. Nachhatar, my friend, waved from the doorway. Beside him sat Dalbir Chetan -small, wiry, with eyes that missed nothing. 

            “So, the student-poet,” Chetan said, rising. His handshake was firm, his palms rough from farm work. “I’ve read your ‘An Apology from Mr. Adam.’  You write like a man who knows happiness and sorrow.” 

             Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Your stories… they’re like breathing our Punjab.” 

             He chuckled. “Stories are seeds. They grow only in fertile hearts.” 

             We talked for hours, of Tagore’s metaphors, Waris Shah’s forbidden romances, the way monsoon rains could shape a plot twist. Nachhatar rolled his eyes. “Enough poetry! Let’s eat.” 

             At sunset, we trekked to Wazir Bhullar, a live chicken squawking in Mehta Sir’s grip. My mother greeted us, her gaze lingering on the bird. “We’ll cook it by the river,” I said. She nodded, though her lips tightened at the impropriety of men butchering poultry. 

             The Beas glowed amber, its currents whispering secrets. Mehta Sir, a banker turned chef, roasted the chicken with chili and cumin, the smoke mingling with the damp scent of river moss. Chetan uncorked a bottle of homemade wine, its sweetness cutting through the spice. 

             “Tell us a story,” I begged as stars pricked the sky. 

             It was here, under the canopy of twilight, that Dalbir Chetan began narrating one of his new stories. His voice, steady and rich, painted vivid scenes of life, love, and loss. We listened intently, the world around us fading into the background as his words took center stage. The stars began to emerge one by one, as if drawn out by the power of his storytelling.

             The evening passed in a blur of laughter, food, and heartfelt conversation. By the time we packed up, it was too late for Dalbir to return to his village, Taragarh, near Jandiala Guru. Nachhtar and Mehta bid us goodbye and drove back to Beas, leaving Dalbir to stay the night at my home.

             We settled into the small room near the main door of the house, its simple interior illuminated by the soft glow of a single lantern. After a light dinner, we lay on our charpoys, talking late into the night about poetry, life, and everything in between. It felt as though time had slowed, allowing us to savor the rare camaraderie that had blossomed between us.

             Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I mentioned Toshi. “She’s coming at midnight,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Chetan raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “Really now?” he said, his tone teasing.

             I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation. “She’ll knock softly. Don’t make a sound,” I warned him. “Just hide under the quilt and pretend you’re not here.”

            As the clock inched closer to midnight, the room fell silent. Chetan buried himself under his quilt, his stillness so convincing that he seemed to disappear entirely. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of the trees outside.

             Then came the knock. Soft, deliberate, and right on time. My heart leapt in my chest as I crept to the door, careful not to make any noise that might wake my mother. My father was away, but my mother’s vigilance was legendary, and I couldn’t afford to risk her waking up.

             I unlatched the door slowly, my palms slick with nervous sweat. But instead of Toshi, it was someone else who stood there, framed by the dim moonlight. My elder brother.

             A captain in the Army, he was stationed in Chandigarh and had come home on short leave, unannounced. For a moment, I was frozen in shock, my mind racing to reconcile the joy of seeing him with the disappointment of what his presence meant.

             “Surprised to see me?” he asked, his voice low but filled with warmth.

             “Very,” I managed, forcing a smile. “Come in.”

             He stepped inside, his boots making a faint thud against the floor. I closed the door behind him, glancing nervously at the quilt where Chetan lay hidden. My brother, blissfully unaware, began recounting stories from his life in the Army, his words a mix of pride and exhaustion. I listened, nodding and responding when appropriate, all the while acutely aware of the quiet figure in the corner.

            Eventually, my brother retired to another room, leaving me alone with Chetan, who emerged from his hiding spot with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

             “That was close,” he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and relief.

             I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension of the moment dissolving into shared humor.

             “I didn’t know whether to feel happy or disappointed,” I admitted.

            “Life has a funny way of keeping us on our toes,” Chetan said, his eyes twinkling.

             That night, as we finally drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but marvel at the unpredictability of life. The incident became a story in itself, one that Dalbir Chetan and I would recount many times in the years to come, laughing until our sides ached. It was a memory etched in the sands of time, a testament to the beauty of friendship, family, and the unexpected twists that make life worth living.

             Years later, as fog swallowed snow on the mountains of Kashmir, I’d clutch that tattered ‘Nagmani’, its pages stiff with frost. Chetan’s stories and Praminderjit’s verses became incantations against the cold. In the margins, I scrawled new poems, for mothers, rivers, and friends who never knocked gently. 

             The fog thickened, but somewhere beyond it, the Beas still flowed, carrying our words to the sea.

 

Even in the frostbitten silence of Kashmir, I heard my mother’s lullaby, and the river’s whisper - reminding me that stories never really end, they just flow home

             But not every knock comes from a loved one, and not every voice carries a lullaby. Soon, boots would replace books, and poems would have to wait behind sandbags. The valley of Kashmir was calling, not with stories or wine by the Beas, but with whispers of unrest, with blood and blurred borders. And as snow began to fall where wheat once waved, I learned the hard truth: even a soldier who writes must first survive the valley, polish his boots in funny moments, and bleed where poetry dares not tread.