There is one person who sends me three cards every year. One on

Host: The night sky stretched wide and infinite, a vast sea of stars shimmering over the silent runway. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of jet fuel and the echo of distant engines long cooled. At the far end of the old airfield, a forgotten hangar stood — its metal doors half-open, its roof streaked with rust and memory.

Inside, an aging spacesuit hung from a steel hook, its once-white surface faded to the color of bone. Beneath it sat Jack, alone, hunched over a small table, a stack of postcards spread before him. The lamplight flickered softly, casting long shadows across his face — half in light, half in thought.

Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps careful against the cold floor. She carried a thermos of tea and a paper envelope tied with string. Her eyes caught the glint of the postcards and softened with understanding.

The quote lay between them, written in simple ink on one of the cards:
"There is one person who sends me three cards every year. One on New Year’s, one for my birthday, and the third that marks the anniversary of my flight into space." — Rakesh Sharma.

Jeeny: “It’s a beautiful ritual, isn’t it? Three cards, three memories — as if the whole of a man’s life could be measured by reminders of love.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Or obsession. Maybe that person just can’t let go of the past.”

Host: His voice was quiet, but edged with something brittle — a mixture of skepticism and longing. The lamp’s glow made his grey eyes seem almost metallic.

Jeeny: “You always see cynicism in what’s tender.”

Jack: “Because tenderness fades. Space doesn’t. Memories don’t send you cards; people do — and people always want something.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes they just want to be remembered.”

Jack: (snorts softly) “You think Rakesh Sharma needs remembering? He was the first Indian in space. His name’s written in history. The cards aren’t for him. They’re for the sender — to feel connected to something beyond themselves.”

Host: The wind slipped through the hangar’s broken panels, carrying with it the faint echo of a distant siren. Jeeny stepped closer, her hair lifting slightly in the draft, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Connection isn’t about purpose. It’s about presence. Those cards are proof that somewhere on this earth, someone still remembers — still cares enough to write.”

Jack: “Or can’t move on.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that another name for loyalty?”

Host: The lamp flickered once, and in its tremor, the old spacesuit seemed to breathe — its empty helmet reflecting both of their faces, distorted by glass and time.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think those three cards mean?”

Jack: (folding his arms) “You’re about to tell me anyway.”

Jeeny: “They’re the three points of orbit. The New Year — the future. The birthday — the past. And the flight anniversary — the eternal moment in between. The one where he looked down on Earth and realized how small we all are.”

Host: Her eyes shone as she spoke, the light trembling across her face like a quiet revelation.

Jack: “You talk like space is poetry. It’s just physics.”

Jeeny: “So is love, Jack. Chemical, measurable — and yet, look how it shapes the universe of a person’s heart.”

Jack: (smiling sadly) “You think everything’s love.”

Jeeny: “I think love is what gives meaning to everything — even spaceflight.”

Host: A plane passed far above, just a faint hum against the night, leaving behind a thin silver line that disappeared almost immediately.

Jack: “I don’t think Sharma’s story is about love. It’s about loneliness. He went up there, saw the whole world in a glance — and ever since, nothing could match it. Those cards aren’t warmth. They’re reminders of distance.”

Jeeny: “Distance doesn’t erase connection. It defines it. You can’t feel closeness without space.”

Jack: (dryly) “That’s philosophical gymnastics.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s human truth. The same way astronauts float in silence and still call it beauty.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer to the table, her fingers brushing one of the postcards. It showed a small sketch of Earth — blue, curved, glowing softly against the ink-black void.

Jeeny: “Imagine what it felt like for him, Jack. Looking down at the entire planet — no borders, no noise, just one fragile, living sphere. And then coming back here — to noise, politics, hunger, indifference. Maybe those cards were his tether. A reminder that someone still saw him as human, not just as history.”

Jack: “And maybe they’re a chain. A refusal to let go of glory days.”

Jeeny: “You always assume remembrance is weakness. Maybe it’s gratitude.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, then steady, each drop echoing in the hollow hangar like a pulse.

Jack: “You ever think about what it must’ve felt like? The silence up there? No sound, no gravity. Just yourself and your heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “I think about it often. Maybe that’s why people write to him. Because in a way, we all want to touch that silence. To believe that someone who’s seen the whole Earth can still care about one human on it.”

Jack: (gazing at the spacesuit) “Faith, then. Not love.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe they’re the same.”

Host: A pause. The rain intensified, beating against the roof, rhythmically — like a song only time could write.

Jeeny: “You know what’s remarkable, Jack? Rakesh Sharma didn’t just go to space. He came back and said, ‘Saare Jahan Se Accha’ — our world is beautiful. Even after seeing its fragility, he called it good. That’s faith. The kind that still sends postcards.”

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “Maybe that’s what I lost — that kind of faith.”

Jeeny: “No. You didn’t lose it. You just stopped looking up.”

Host: Her words lingered, suspended in the still air. Jack looked toward the open door, where the rain shimmered under the floodlight. Beyond it, the sky stretched vast and infinite again — a reminder of both insignificance and wonder.

Jack: “So you think those three cards are... what? Acts of devotion?”

Jeeny: “No. Acts of remembrance. The way a heartbeat remembers to beat. The way Earth keeps turning beneath the emptiness.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “There’s something beautiful about that. That a single act — written ink, mailed paper — can outlive distance, time, maybe even gravity.”

Jeeny: “That’s what connection is, Jack. Not constant presence — but persistent care.”

Host: The rain began to fade, replaced by the soft hiss of the sea beyond the cliffs. Jeeny poured tea into two small cups. Steam rose between them like breath made visible.

Jack: “You think someone still sends you cards, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I think every sunrise is one. You just have to read it.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly — the kind of laugh that breaks a long-held sadness. He picked up one of the postcards and studied it. The handwriting was small, deliberate — a hand that believed every word mattered.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. Three cards. One for the past, one for the future, one for the moment that transcended both.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like orbits — return, leave, return again.”

Host: A faint light broke through the clouds outside, the first pale hint of dawn. The hangar seemed less empty now. The old spacesuit no longer looked like a relic, but like a sentinel — guarding a memory that refused to die.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what faith looks like. Not prayer. Not belief. Just... remembering.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Remembering is humanity’s quietest form of love.”

Host: They stood side by side, watching the light rise. The cards lay scattered across the table, their corners catching the soft gold of morning.

And as the world outside awakened, the quote by Rakesh Sharma seemed to whisper through the hangar, not as nostalgia — but as testament:

That even after touching the stars, what endures most... is the simple miracle of being remembered by one heart on Earth.