The Blue Envelope

Mallika had no desire whatsoever to open the envelope. The maid had dropped it casually on the table, half-hidden under the newspaper, as though it carried no weight at all. But it did. The small, familiar, blue envelope had already darkened her mother’s face the moment she saw it. Mallika, hurriedly arranging her college bag, tried to pretend it wasn’t there. Why must the postman, week after week, deliver these blue envelopes? Every time one arrived, the atmosphere of the house grew heavy, thick with silence and suspicion. Everyone blamed Mallika. But was it really her fault? If someone on the street stared at her endlessly, or if letters came stuffed into blue envelopes every week—what could she possibly do? How could she stop it?
 
And yet she bore the consequences. Among relatives and friends, her head sank low. She was mocked, whispered about, ridiculed. Even at home, her mother often withheld words from her, or refused to let her step outside when she wished. College to home, home to college—that was all her life allowed. It suffocated her at times. Tears rose to her eyes. She cursed the faceless sender. That boy had turned her life into a cage.
 
He often lingered near her college, lurking in corners. Tall, dark-skinned, his beard rough and overgrown, his eyes brooding and vacant. A soiled shirt clung loosely to his frame, paired with black jeans, a bag hanging lifelessly from his shoulder. He looked like a student, though of what or where she never knew. There was nothing striking about him—ordinary at best, untidy at worst. His hair was always a mess. And yet, his eyes were startling—bright, unwavering. When he fixed them on Mallika, they refused to blink, refused to break away. She gave him no heed. All her friends knew about him, of course. They teased her mercilessly. She sometimes joined their laughter, but it never lightened her own heart.
 
On days she returned home alone, dread gnawed at her. She would walk briskly from the college gate to the bus stand, never once daring to look back. And still, she marvelled: though she knew nothing of him, he seemed to know everything of her—her schedule, her family, even her address. She had no interest in him at all. Yet every weekend, another blue envelope arrived. She had never once opened one. Surely they contained what such letters always contained—pleas and poetry, confessions of love, appeals to meet, to befriend her, to share her joys and sorrows. Such was the language of love letters.
 
Mallika found it absurd. Could one simply declare friendship, as though by decree? Was it enough merely to feel an attraction? Without knowledge, without testing, without time—what was such a claim worth? The boy’s persistence felt not romantic, but invasive. What right did he imagine he had over her? Was this not a trespass? Was this not a wrong? Her will meant nothing; her innocence counted for nothing. Yet she was the one who bore humiliation before family and friends.
 
And all because, long ago, she had sat beside him on the bus. That, perhaps, was where it began. The bus had been half empty, yet she had chosen the seat by him, only because it was nearest the door and she thought it would be easier to alight. That half-hour journey from Jadavpur to Ballygunge—two strangers sat side by side. Neither moved so much as an inch, lest their bodies accidentally brush. The boy clutched the metal bar of the window each time the bus jolted; Mallika gripped the door handle, fiercely guarding her distance. Encounters like this happen daily on buses. At first, he hadn’t even stared. His gaze wandered outside, lost. Only now and then did he turn, and their eyes would collide—sometimes she looked away first, sometimes he did. In those fleeting sparks, a strange fire leapt up. A heat that touched the heart. The kind of flame from which so-called love begins—perhaps, perhaps not.
 
That was the start. They began seeing each other on that bus more and more often. Then, she was still in school, and so was he—at a different one, a little older. In a few months, their faces grew familiar. Familiar faces, though not familiar souls. Isn’t that how it often is? A face is known, yet the person remains a mystery. Still, during those silent journeys, something always lingered—a faint current, a flicker of warmth passing back and forth through their eyes. On the days one of them did not appear, the other felt strangely chilled, as though deprived of some small, secret fire.
 
And so, three years passed. No words exchanged. No names even. Only familiarity without knowing.
 
In those days, Mallika had liked him. It was not love, but a curious delight, an unfamiliar joy. The sense of recognition—“Yes, I know him. He sits just so, stares out of the window just so, counts coins carefully when he buys his ticket. He gets off at Garia, I at Gariahat.” Their journeys were parallel but apart. Their bond, as fragile and fleeting as earthen teacups—bought fresh each day, used briefly, thrown away. Such was their companionship.
 
Then came examinations, results, the burden of higher studies, the awakening of career dreams. Somewhere in that tide, Mallika forgot him. A year, a year and a half passed. Then suddenly, he returned into her life. She saw him again at Minto Park. He stood watching until her bus swallowed her and carried her away. Then he disappeared into the crowd. Soon after, the blue envelopes began. Somehow, he had unearthed her address.
 
The first time, the whole household laughed. But when they began to arrive regularly, laughter turned to irritation, irritation to resentment. Now her life had become nearly unbearable because of them. If only she could be rid of them.
One day her mother, Monorama, muttered in a low voice as she passed her room:
“Why don’t you say something? Your friends could too. Just one stern word, and he’ll never dare again.”
 
“What am I supposed to say? Should I tell a man who merely stands on the street, ‘Don’t come here’? Can one say that? He’s harmless. I can do nothing. If you want, you do it,” Mallika replied, weary of the conversation.
 
Her mother’s temper flared. “Don’t joke, Malli. You don’t know these boys. Who knows what they may do. I worry for you. Is there no law in this country? Such rascals should rot in jail.”
 
“I think he’s foolish, yes, but not dangerous. He’s never spoken, never teased. That’s why we cannot really complain. Yes, he disturbs me, but that’s all. How does he manage to persist? Who knows. He’s just a stupid, idiotic donkey.”
 
“Maybe you encourage him, somehow. Otherwise why would he keep trying?”
“Stop talking nonsense, Ma.”
 
Her mother pressed on: “Strike a match long enough, and fire will catch. Perhaps he has found some corner in your heart. It wouldn’t be unnatural.”
 
“Ma! Will you stop? You’re the ones putting these ideas into my head. If I wanted such a thing, I would tell you all. Why repeat the same words over and over? It hurts me.”
 
“But how can he wait for hours, day after day, without a single response from you? Is he mad? Should I send him a stern letter?”
 
“Would that be right?”
 
“At least it might stop these letters. If needed, we’ll go to the police. Even if there is scandal, so be it. At least you’ll have peace.”
 
“Do what you like. My honor is already gone,” Mallika muttered, and left for college.
 
Days slipped past. The boy did nothing—only watched, only sent envelopes. By now Mallika feared him less. Sometimes she even thought of him in wonder. What did he gain, day after day, standing there, sending those emotional letters, perhaps imagining himself noble? Once, long ago, on the bus, he had seemed more innocent. She herself had stolen glances. Perhaps that was the spark from which he drew his inspiration.
 
At least one thing she knew: he was not a schemer. Whenever she saw him, her own face grew grave, while his lit up with a strange, unexpected smile—the smile of one who receives a gift unlooked for. If he knew that she had never once opened his letters, would that smile remain the same? Each time a blue envelope arrived, the house grew heavy again. Once her aunt had said, “Because of this boy, you will know great sorrow.”
 
“What can I do?” Mallika had replied.
 
“You could love a good boy instead.”
 
“What nonsense! You say anything.”
 
“Why not? If you cannot love, then pretend. Act as though you love someone else. Show this fellow, and he’ll never return.”
 
The suggestion amused Mallika. Though outwardly she snapped, “As if love were something one could pretend.” And then both had laughed.
 
Weeks later, her aunt’s plan was tried. One Monday, Mallika walked out of college holding her friend Ritu’s hand, laughing and whispering, feigning intimacy. The boy was there, watching, his eyes strangely wide. Mallika played her part. Then suddenly, Ritu kissed her. Mallika felt sick, repulsed, but forced herself to laugh. Turning back toward the bus stand, she saw the boy was gone. For the first time, he had left before her. After that day, he never returned. No blue envelopes arrived. A week passed. He had vanished.
 
Her family breathed easier at last. They praised her cleverness. She herself felt the triumph of victory. And yet—within her there stirred a strange emptiness. Something missing, something hollow. Lying awake, she felt the silence deepen. The room glowed faintly under the blue night lamp. Blue—her favorite color. How had he known? Because of that single kiss, he would never return. In a way, it was freedom from torment. Yet still, pain remained. Inside her, the sea groaned, restless and salty. Tears welled. In the blue light, everything seemed drenched in blue. Strange, the human heart—her pillow grew wet with an unfamiliar tide.
 
Something drew her from the bed. As if in a trance, she walked to the dressing table, pulled open a drawer, and drew out the stack of old envelopes. For the first time, she felt the urge to read them. To know what he had written. To understand. Perhaps then she could decide. All emotions in the world must, in the end, be resolved by reason. She searched the envelopes for an address. An address, a place where blue envelopes could be sent.
 
Clutching one to her chest, she dreamed of a fragile happiness. She tore one open, unable to resist. Surely just one letter would soften her, soothe her, make her eyes close in peace.
 
But wonder of wonders! There was nothing written inside. Not a single word, not in any of them. Only blank sheets.
 
This was his strange, astonishing love letter.