THE MEMORY BOX

Connecticut | Saturday, 7:30 AM

Today, I woke up slowly to a quiet house. My husband is away in the United Kingdom attending an academic conference and will return next week. My two lovely daughters are also traveling on a tour, returning around the same time. Both of them have made us incredibly proud—my elder daughter, Suhana, earned a scholarship for her Ph.D. in IT, while my younger daughter, Smriti, received a scholarship for her MBA at UCONN.

After a quiet breakfast, I decided to tackle cleaning my room. I opened my wardrobe and pulled out a weathered red box from the top shelf. Sitting on the bed with the box resting in my lap, I opened the lid—and was immediately transported into the past.

The box was filled with letters. They weren't just sheets of paper; they were living fragments of love, youth, and unsaid longing. As I touched the yellowed envelopes, a flood of memories washed over me, and tears welled up in my eyes.

I. Kathmandu, 1985

I was twenty years old, in the second year of my Bachelor’s degree in English Literature at Tribhuvan University, Kirtipur. I lived in Maitidevi with my family, though our roots were in Dhankuta. My days were spent immersed in the worlds of D.H. Lawrence and Charles Dickens, balanced by a deep affection for Nepali literature.

It was a Saturday morning when I walked down to the neighborhood stationery shop and bought the latest issues of Madhuparka and Yuwamanch. I loved reading the short stories published in these literary magazines. Deep down, I harbored a quiet dream of seeing my own stories published alongside them, but fear always held me back from sending my work in.

Flipping through the back pages of Madhuparka, I came across the pen-pal section. Profiles with small black-and-white photographs filled the page, except for one.

Nitesh Shrestha (22)

Master’s Student in Commerce.

Hobbies: Stamp collecting, reading novels, writing short stories.

There was something intriguing about the absence of a picture—a sense of quiet mystery. Discovering our shared love for novels and story-writing sparked a sudden burst of courage in me. Pulling out a clean sheet of paper, I wrote my very first letter to him:

Dear Nitesh-ji,

Namaste. My name is Anisha Dahal. I am originally from Dhankuta, though I have lived in Maitidevi, Kathmandu, for the past ten years. I am currently pursuing my Bachelor’s degree in English Literature at Tribhuvan University.

I came across your profile in Madhuparka magazine today. Even without a photograph, your entry caught my attention. What resonated with me most is our shared love for literature and writing. I write short stories myself, though I have never had the courage to submit them for publication. Have you published any of your work yet?

I hope this letter finds you well, and I look forward to building a meaningful friendship through our correspondence.

Sincerely yours,

Anisha Dahal

After sealing the envelope, I realized I needed a Post Office Box to receive replies. The following morning, I traveled to the central post office in Lazimpat, registered for a P.O. Box, and mailed the letter with a heart full of nervous anticipation.

II. Two Weeks Later

Two weeks later, I walked to the Lazimpat post office after college, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned the key in my P.O. Box—and there it was. A single envelope.

I rushed home, sat on the edge of my bed without even changing out of my clothes, and carefully slit open the seal.

Dear Anisha-ji,

Namaste. I was delighted to receive your letter and learn about you. It was a wonderful surprise to discover that you also hail from Dhankuta!

Allow me to introduce myself a bit more. I am studying for a Master’s degree while living in Dharan, and I teach literature to ninth and tenth graders. Writing and reading are my true passions, especially stories that capture the quiet depths of human emotion.

I particularly admire Bijaya Malla’s novel 'Anuradha' for its portrayal of selfless love, and R.K. Narayan’s 'The English Teacher' for its profound exploration of marriage, grief, and emotional endurance.

Besides reading, I frequently write short stories. A few have been published in Madhuparka, and another is scheduled for next month’s edition. I would be honored if you read it and shared your honest thoughts with me.

Until next time.

Sincerely yours,

Nitesh Shrestha

Reading his words brought a wave of warmth. We shared identical tastes in books and a similar way of viewing the world. The only difference was his courage to put his work out into the world—a courage that quietly began to inspire my own.

III. The Published Story

The moment the next issue of Madhuparka arrived, I bought a copy and rushed to my room after lunch. Flipping through the pages, my eyes caught the title of Nitesh’s story: "The Farther the Distance, the Stronger the Love."

The story narrated a delicate childhood bond:

Isha and I grew up as neighbors in Dhankuta. We were inseparable, sharing every childhood secret and joy. But childhood promises are fragile against the tide of time. After fifth grade, her family relocated to India.

The evening before she left, she came to say goodbye. Tears blurred my vision as she promised she would return during vacations to visit me. But vacation after vacation passed, and she never returned. No letters came; no news ever reached me. Decades have drifted by, and though I no longer know what she looks like or if our paths will ever cross again, she remains the quiet memory of my first love.

The story left me deeply moved—and intensely curious. I sat down and penned my reply immediately:

Dear Nitesh-ji,

Your story was beautiful and heartbreaking. Reading it left me with so many questions. Was the story autobiographical? If so, do you still hold onto that love, and are you still waiting for her return? I would love to know the truth behind your words.

Regards,

Anisha

IV. A Year of Letters

His response arrived two weeks later:

Dear Anisha-ji,

Thank you for your kind letter. Yes, the story was inspired by my own life. I loved her deeply then, but I am not waiting for her anymore. Life moves forward, and she has likely built a wonderful life of her own. We must honor the past, but live for the present.

Tell me more about your own life and your writing.

Regards,

Nitesh

A gentle relief settled in my chest reading his answer. Over the next year, our letters became a rhythmic, cherished part of my life. We shared our thoughts on books, philosophy, family, and daily moments.

Gradually, a quiet affection bloomed between us. I longed to hear his real voice, to see the face behind the elegant handwriting. When I suggested meeting, Nitesh proposed a promise: after my final degree exams were complete, he would travel to Kathmandu to meet me and my family formally.

I agreed to wait. But during all those months, my father remained completely unaware of Nitesh's existence, and a quiet anxiety lingered in the back of my mind.

V. The Unanswered Letter

The day my final exams ended, my father called me into his study. He put down the book he was reading and motioned for me to sit beside him.

"You've completed your exams, Anisha, and I know you will pass with distinction," he began gently. "I think it is time we discuss your marriage. A good proposal has come forward, and I hope you will consider it."

A heavy silence settled in the room. Sensing my hesitation, my father added kindly, "There is no rush, my child. Tell me what is on your mind."

Gathering every ounce of my courage, I swallowed hard. "Father... I am in love with someone."

My father didn't get angry. He simply looked at me thoughtfully. "Who is he? Have you met him? How can you be sure of your feelings for someone you have only known through written words?"

"We truly understand each other," I replied softly. "Let me write to him and ask him to visit us with his family. If you meet him and feel he isn't right for me, I will accept your decision."

My father agreed. That very afternoon, I posted an urgent letter to Nitesh:

Dear Nitesh-ji,

My exams are complete, and my father has begun speaking about my marriage. I told him about us. He wishes to meet you. Please come to Kathmandu with your family as soon as possible.

Regards,

Anisha

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into two full months. Every morning, I checked for a reply, but my P.O. Box remained empty. No letter ever came.

As the silence stretched on, grief and heartbreak took over. I felt abandoned, wondering if he had changed his mind or chosen someone else, leaving me with a silence that cut deeper than any words could have.

VI. Moving Forward

When the university results were published, I passed with First Class honors. My father was radiant with pride, but my own joy was hollow, weighed down by Nitesh's silence.

One evening, my father came into my room. "Anisha, did you ever hear back from Nitesh?"

I lowered my eyes, unable to hide the tears. Seeing my distress, my father sat beside me and spoke with quiet wisdom. "Whatever happened, you must leave it behind now. Life cannot stand still for someone who leaves you in uncertainty. You deserve a partner who chooses you wholeheartedly every single day."

Wiping my tears, I looked at him and nodded. "For your happiness, Father, I am ready."

VII. A Life Built

In December 1987, I was married to Vivek Sharma, a brilliant physics scholar who had earned a full scholarship to pursue his higher studies in the United States.

Two months after our wedding, Vivek flew to America. Determined to build a life alongside him, I applied for higher education grants and secured a scholarship for a Master's degree in Literature in the U.S. as well. After completing our degrees, we both secured academic positions at the university.

Our life together was peaceful and rich. A few years later, our eldest daughter, Suhana, was born, followed five years later by Smriti. They grew into remarkable, independent young women who brought immense light into our lives.

Present Day

I gently wiped a tear from my cheek and carefully placed the letters back inside the red box.

Vivek has been a good, honorable husband, and together we built a wonderful family. Yet, in the quiet corners of my mind, I never truly forgot Nitesh. The mystery of his sudden silence remained an open chapter in my heart.

Now, facing the advanced stages of brain cancer—a reality I have kept to myself to spare my family the pain while they are away—that old memory feels softer, freed from bitterness. I no longer feel anger over the missing reply. I simply wish, with a quiet tenderness, that I could have seen his face just once.

Closing the lid of the red box, I restored it to its quiet spot in the wardrobe, took a deep breath, and continued cleaning the room.