Some love stories begin with a first meeting. Others begin with a goodbye.
Inspired by true events from the aftermath of the Partition of India, Dear Zahira, With Love is an intimate epistolary novel that follows Ghulam Ali and Zahira Raza, two lovers separated by a border that neither of them chose. As they exchange letters between Lahore and Lucknow, they struggle against distance, uncertainty, and the slow passage of time, holding on to the hope that love can outlast history.
The following excerpt offers a glimpse into their world. Ghulam Ali writes to Zahira after his sudden arrest in Lucknow, where he is accused of being a spy. Zahira’s reply captures the anguish of not knowing whether the man she loves is alive, while a later letter reveals Ghulam’s quiet dreams of returning home, marrying Zahira, and embracing the daughter he has never met. Together, these letters reveal the novel’s emotional heart—a story of separation, resilience, and the enduring power of hope.
Book Excerpt
8th November, 1958 — Lahore, Pakistan
Respected Zahira Ji,
I am alive.
I need to begin with that, because there were moments in the last ten days when I was not certain I would be. I do not know what you were told after they took me away. That thought has troubled me more than I can say, the image of you standing in that room after the jeep left. I only know how abruptly it happened and how terrifying it must have been for you.
I knew that the police would find their way to my door sooner or later. I had prepared myself for it, but I was not prepared for how little time I would have with you before it happened. I keep thinking of that now, of all the things I could have said to you.
That evening, they took me to a small room in the Lucknow police station and started asking questions. They had my papers with them. They knew I was living there on a false passport. They knew I was a limb fitter and had worked for the British Army, and later for the Pakistan Army. But none of that seemed to matter to them. What mattered was the word they kept returning to, saying it after my name, again and again, as though repetition could make it true:
Jasoos.
23rd November, 1958 — Lucknow, United Provinces
My dearest Ghulam Ali Ji,
Your letter reached me yesterday, near sunset. I read the first line standing by the window. After that, I sat down. Until then, I had not realised how tightly I had been holding myself. Knowing you are alive gave me something I had been missing for days, the ability to breathe without effort.
For ten days, I had no information about you. Each morning, I told myself that something would come. By evening, that hope would fade. The morning after you were taken, I went to the police station on Hazratganj Road. A constable asked me your name. He repeated it a few times, then told me to wait. I stood near the wall, watching people come and go, each one carrying their own fear.
After some time, another officer came out. He asked how I knew you. When I repeated your name, he cut me off before I could finish. He wondered why I was asking about a man who was not my husband. I tried to explain, but he did not let me. He said there was no information to give.
“If there is anything to know, we will inform you.”
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, that it would be better if I stopped coming back. I went again two days later… and then again.
From a later letter
“I’ll see you very soon, Zahira Ji, and I’ll finally hold Zubeida in my arms. I’ll bring the crib I made for her; it’s my most precious possession. We’ll have a small ceremony and read our nikaah in the presence of the Qaazi Ji. Zubeida will have the rare honour of attending her own parents’ wedding.
I’ll lift her onto my shoulders and show her all of Lucknow. I’ll tell everyone she’s my daughter. At night, I’ll sing her to sleep.
I know the return will not erase everything that has happened. But at least it will allow us to begin from the same ground again.
You haven’t written back in a while anyway, but don’t reply to this letter. I won’t be here to receive it by the time you do.”
— Yours sincerely,
Ghulam Ali
Room No. 217
Hindu Refugee Camp, Lahore
Whether Ghulam Ali’s dream of returning to Zahira and holding his daughter finally comes true is a journey the novel unfolds with quiet grace. Through letters marked by longing, resilience and unwavering hope, Dear Zahira, With Love becomes more than a story of two lovers—it is a tribute to the countless lives that Partition left suspended between memory and belonging. In giving voice to those who waited, wrote and refused to forget, the novel reminds us that while history may draw borders, the human heart continues to cross them.
