The Last Letter from the Hills: Part 2 - The Monsoon of Memories

Three years had passed since Rajan Mehra lost his daughter, Sanjana. Yet Devdar Cottage was no longer a place where silence lived. It was a place of soft voices, scribbling pens, rustling pages, and the laughter of children who had come to love the old man who told stories that made the hills feel alive.

Each morning, Rajan woke up to the scent of damp earth and lemongrass tea. Chintu, the old cat, now blind in one eye but full of mischief, still curled at his feet. But things had changed - so subtly that only someone like Rajan, who had once spent a lifetime counting silence, could notice.

The town children began calling him Nanu Sir. No one remembered where the name began, but it stuck like the monsoon mist to a raincoat.

He taught them how to write with feeling, not just facts. He'd say, "Don’t just write the rain fell. Tell me how it kissed your window."

A small blackboard stood near his veranda, where he scribbled a “Thought for the Day.” Sometimes it was from Tagore, other times from his own heart.

One cloudy afternoon in July, a girl named Anvi - no more than ten - ran up to him, clutching a tattered school bag.

“Nanu Sir, why don’t you go live with your relatives? You’re always alone.”

Rajan smiled, patting her head.

“I’m not alone, gudiya. I live with memories. They may not cook or clean, but they talk a lot.”

She giggled, not fully understanding. But it planted something in her heart.

That night, it rained. Not the kind of rain that lashes rooftops, but the gentle kind - the kind Sanjana used to love. Rajan sat by the open window, sipping tea, and talking aloud:

“Do you remember, Sanju… the kite that got stuck in the jamun tree? And you cried till I climbed up and tore my kurta to get it back?” He chuckled softly to himself.

The wind stirred the curtains as if answering.

He took out his daughter’s last photo from his diary—one where she wore a woollen scarf, eyes sparkling, teeth barely visible in her smile. Next to it, he placed a letter. He had written it, but never posted.

My dearest Sanjana,

I was a foolish man afraid of what the world would say. But you were braver than I ever was. You chose love. And I lost mine.

But every day now, I see you in the children’s eyes, in the orchids near the stream, in the stories I tell. Thank you for forgiving me. I live each day to earn that forgiveness.

Forever yours,
Papa

The next morning, something unusual happened.

A woman in her late thirties came to the cottage. Her name was Nandita. She had Sanjana’s eyes.

“I’m your granddaughter,” she said, trembling.

Rajan stared his hands shook, but his voice was steady. “I hoped you would come one day.”

They spoke all day, as if trying to gather the lost years and tuck them back into their hearts. Nandita, a schoolteacher herself, had lived in Pune. Sanjana had told her about Devdar Cottage - about the hills, about mango pickle jars and bedtime poems.

That night, they sat together near the fire as Rajan told her the story of the sparrow who taught a lion to sing.

Two years later…

Devdar Cottage had been converted into a learning home called “Gudiya Ghar” in memory of Sanjana. Children from the hills came there after school, not just to learn, but to feel heard, seen, and safe. Nandita ran the place, and Rajan, though older now, still sat by the window with a smile, watching the world continue its story.

Sometimes, when the wind howled through the trees, he imagined Sanjana’s laughter joining it.

And every dusk, he would light a lamp by the window, just like she used to. Not out of routine - but remembrance.

Moral (Part 2):
Life moves forward, but love stays. Forgiveness plants seeds that blossom long after we're gone. In every act of healing, we don't just mend the past—we gift a future.

And in the hills near Landour, the path to Devdar Cottage is no longer forgotten.