The Parcel of Love

A Rainy Night, 11 November 2025.

Outside, raindrops tap gently on the windowpane. Inside, a dim yellow lamp glows. A man sits by his desk, the clock striking 11:57 PM. His eyes are fixed on the date on his phone: 11 November 2025.
Just a few more minutes, and it’ll be her birthday.

He takes a deep breath.
As the wind hums softly, his mind drifts back in time — to October 2022.

Flashback begins (October 2022, Meerut).

He sits by his notepad, scribbling dates. “If I post it on 26th, or maybe 28th… will it reach Erbil by 12th November?”
The excitement in his eyes hides a little panic — so little time left, so much to plan.

He wants to surprise his Kurdish girl — the girl with the soft laugh and storm in her eyes.
It’s going to be her 23rd birthday, and he wants to send her something that carries a piece of his soul.

A message pops on his phone — her friend from Finland.
He types fast: “Can you help me choose something for her? Something Indian… something that says I love you, but without saying it out loud.”

The Hunt for the Perfect Gift.
Him scrolling endlessly on Myntra.
Kurti after kurti, suit after suit.
He finally stops — a grey suit with a golden dupatta. It looks graceful, elegant, and quietly poetic.
Another one — a colourful flower printed suit — lively, just like her.

Days pass. Packages arrive. He opens them with trembling hands.
The grey one steals his heart instantly — the golden dupatta shines like early sunlight.
The other, though beautiful, doesn’t feel right.
He sends it back.

The dates are slipping — October 20… 21… 23.
By October 24, he’s running out of time.

He messages her friend again, sending pictures of the suit and jhumkas.
Her friend replies, “Oh my God, these are so beautiful. I wish someone sent me something like this.”
He smiles faintly — “They’re for her. Only her.”

The Letter.
It’s October 25.
Rain falls again outside. He sits with pen and paper.

He doesn’t just write a note — he writes poetry, soft and trembling, each line soaked in memories and distance.
Halfway through, his eyes fill with tears.
He writes a secret line at the end — a link to a blog he’s written for her, to be read only by her.
He imagines her smile when she finds it.

The Journey to Delhi.
October 26.
The morning sun rises over Meerut. He boards a bus to Delhi, holding his gift close to his chest as if it were fragile hope.
By afternoon, he’s in Connaught Place, lost among the crowd, looking for something extra.

He walks into Palika Bazaar, the underground maze of colors and chaos.
There — a small shop, glittering with silver and stones.
He picks a necklace, earrings, and bangles — imagining how they’d shine on her hands.

But fate has its limits.

At the India Post Office, the postmaster weighs the package.
“Sir, you can’t send more than 800 grams.”
He stands silent, staring at the scale.
Then, with a heavy heart, he removes the bangles — his favorite part of the gift.

He seals the parcel with trembling fingers, watching it disappear behind the counter, not knowing if it’ll ever reach her.

The Waiting.
Days melt into each other.
November 12 arrives — her birthday.
He messages her sister in Erbil, “Did it arrive?”
The reply breaks him a little — “No, not yet.”

He sits alone that night, his heart heavy.
Her friend messages from Finland, “It’s okay. You’ve already done your part. Love doesn’t always arrive on time, but it always arrives.”

Three days pass.
Then seven.
Then ten.

And just when hope begins to fade—

The Arrival. (November 24, 2022)
A message flashes on his phone.
“It arrived!”

His heart races. He calls her sister, “Record her when she opens it, please.”
Evening falls.

He waits, restless.
Then — a video.

She’s unwrapping the package, her hands shaking.
Inside, the grey suit, the jhumkas, the dupatta — and her eyes fill with tears.
She covers her mouth, crying softly — not out of sadness, but love.

She doesn’t notice the hidden letter at first, tucked neatly in the folds of the suit.
He smiles through tears, whispering, “Pagli… it’s there, right there.”

She never finds it that night.
But her reaction — her crying smile, her trembling hands — becomes his most cherished memory.
For two years, he watches that video every single day.
Until one day, his phone dies, and with it, the video — gone forever.

But the memory stays — clearer than any screen.

Present Day, 11 November 2025.
Back to the present.
The same man sits in silence. It’s 12:01 AM in India.
Far away, in Erbil, it’s 9:31 PM.

He looks out the window, smiles faintly, eyes glistening.
He whispers into the quiet night in the air —

“Happy Birthday… meri ugly pagli - where ever you are.
I love you.”

The rain continues outside.
And somewhere, 3,330 kilometers away, a girl with soft eyes and golden dupatta might just look up at the same sky — feeling, somehow, the same warmth in her heart.

He closes his eyes.
The words form silently on his lips —

If I never see you again,
I will always carry you — inside, outside,
on my fingertips and at the edges of my mind,
and in the centers… centers of what I am,
of what remains.