The Letter on the Shoe Rack

We found it lying on the shoe rack.

A plain brown envelope.
Creased, slightly smudged.

No name.
No stamp.
No return address.

Just… there.

I picked it up, held it against the light and tossed it on the kitchen counter.

Another bill or junk mail maybe.

That night, the old college gang was coming over.
The ones who’d seen you at your worst … and stayed anyway.

We were The Tree Gang.
Back then, we were inseparable, absolute chaos and layered secrets.
Now we were scattered all over, conversations in text threads and postponed plans.

The evening unfolded in Laughter. Glasses clinking.
Someone burned the garlic bread.
It was perfect.

Until someone pointed

to the envelop still sitting there.

“Hey… what’s that?”

And opened it without waiting.

Inside —
A letter.
Handwritten.
On the back of a photograph.

Us.

Eighteen yo-somethings in baggy jeans and wide-open futures,
under the banyan tree behind the Physics building.

The handwriting…
someone whispered,

“That’s… G.”

Silence.
The kind that settles in your chest.

G passed away seven years ago.
Just like that.
Too young. Too brilliant.
Too G to be gone.

She was the planner. The spark. The chaos.
The one who once stumbled into a serious lecture and made everyone laugh.

She had this way —
arms flung wide like wings —
sprinting towards the tree yelling,

“Let’s do something!”

And we did.
We played contact and I declare war against.

Under that same tree, one day, we made a pact:

Twenty-five years from now—
no matter what—
we meet again.

The years slid past.
Jobs. Kids. Life.
A Goa trip still trapped in a WhatsApp thread.

Maybe this letter was her final prank.

Or her final miracle.

We turned it over and read:

To the family I’ve known forever,
It’s been 25 years since the promise was made.
We laughed about it. We meant it. And then… life happened.
We let the days slip by, waiting for someone else to make the first move.
Well—this is mine.
It's your turn now.

One promise - Find it. Make it Happen.
The clock is ticking.

I’ll be waiting.
Let’s do something.
—The Troublemaker

We looked at each other.
Something flickered.
A flood of memories.

A shared ache.

I said, “Let’s stop waiting for the perfect time.”

Right then,

with dessert melting and wine half-full,

we called the rest of the gang
we chose a date: October 2026.
A place: Montenegro.
A blank page. A new sky.

And then — as if she planned it —
G’s husband walked in.

He saw the envelope.

He paused.

“You opened it?”

He smiled — sad and fond —
he found it that very morning.
Tucked inside one of her old photo albums.

“It was meant for the Goa trip,” he said.
“She would’ve wanted to do this.
Since she couldn’t… I thought I’d deliver it for her.”

We reminisced and raised our glasses.
To G —

The OG Organiser

The whisper who didn’t fade.
The ghost with the best timing.

That night, we planned a reunion seven years too late —
but somehow, right on time.

Not beneath the old banyan.
But beneath skies she’d love to see.

Somewhere in a parallel universe on an open ground with a lone banyan tree,
I imagine her — arms outstretched, mid-sprint —
laughing through tears, shouting:

“Let’s do something.”