Letter from Mrs Rajagopalan

To Mr Chetan Sukhani,

Why am I writing a letter to the killer of my husband? Why must I reach out to the murderer of my child? I think you know why.

I met Sunder, the love of my life for the first time on the day we got married. An arranged marriage. He was a stranger, and yet within a few hours he became my other half.

I had always wanted to be a dancer, but my parents would have none of it. This was after they put me through ten years of training, staged an arangetram and even convinced me to have a website. After all that they expected me to marry a stranger and spend the rest of my life being a housewife! Yes, the great paradox of parenting.

But this is not about them. As it turned out, that stranger happened to understand what my heart really beat for, in a way my parents never could.  He let me chase dance with a passion that no one else would. He let me unleash my yearning and pour my energies into that art form.

I still remember when he came home tired from work one day. “How was your day?” he asked. It was not the first time that he had asked me  before I could ask him the same question. I was just a boring housewife and he was the one with the interesting stories to tell. But that was him. Always putting me ahead of him.

“Nothing. The usual,” I said, cutting the vegetables up.

“Did you dance?” he would ask with a gleam in his eye.

“A little.”

“How much is a little?” he prodded.

“About four hours!” I said, sheepishly

His impressed eyes were to die for. “That is a little.” He said mocking me. “You know Radha, I have been thinking, why don’t you start a dance school?”

“But where?”

“Here at home.”

And just like that he had once again picked up on what I wanted. So began Radha’s school of dance with our neighbour as my first student.

The years went by and we had all the happiness in the world. After four years we finally decided it was time for us to try to start a family. For the first six months, we didn’t worry about anything. And then the doubts started emerging. The questions started forming. And we didn’t have  the answers. To ourselves and our probing family members, hope was dwindling away.

The shocking revelation at the doctors only confirmed the worst. “Mrs Rajagopalan, your ovaries are not capable of producing an egg,” said the doctor.

For the doctor it was just a simple medical fact. For us it was a world of dreams dissolving in a second. But again, when  I had started developing a sense of negativity towards myself, and cursed my luck, he displayed a rare sense of calm and lack of judgement. He didn’t have a stern word for me, but instead comforted me in every way.

“Radha,” he said one night, “ it’s OK if we don’t have kids. Think about how much money we would save.”

“As if you care about saving money” I retorted. “So Sunder, are you really not keen to have kids?”

“I am. But at the end of the day it’s not in our hands. I am happy just with the two of us. Until we get old.”

“But I want a kid Sunder.”

“Well if you really want one, then we can consider adoption.”

And just like that, the seed of adoption was sowed in my mind. But the process was harder than we first thought. We had to save up much more than we had planned. Sunder worked day and night over the next six years and we were finally ready.

The adoption house sent us a photo of a little boy. He was only three years old. I loved his wide smile the second I saw it. With my ailing mother-in-law at home, only Sunder could go to the adoption place in Calcutta.

He reached and called me after doing the paperwork at the adoption centre. I spoke to our adopted son on the phone – we had named him Keshava. After a few hours, Sunder called me again from the airport saying that he had checked-in and that little Keshava was very excited about the airport.

I hung up and began preparing all the wonderful dishes I knew. I wanted my son to eat like a prince and I waited to welcome Sunder, the King of my world.

They never came home Mr Sukhani. I never saw them again.

And I hold you responsible.

I have lived with the past for the last ten years. When I received that phone call from Melbourne, my world collapsed yet again. I sent all my students and teachers home and immediately went back to my house and thought about what that gentleman had said.

He had requested me to think beyond the anger and the pain. To think about justice. For many years I believed that Sunder and little Keshava were taken away by fate. By accident. Now I know they were taken away by you. You would have had your reasons, I know, but frankly I don’t care. I want justice.

And if justice is to be served, then I request you to do the right thing. And that’s why I write to the man who destroyed my kingdom, begging him to do the right thing.

Thank you,

Radha Rajagoplan