Tell Ma I’m Fine The Hidden World of Soldiers’ Letters

In the freezing silence of the mountains, where the wind slices through even the thickest boots, an Indian soldier pulls out a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his uniform. It’s soft around the edges, stained with sweat and snow, but the words are sharp, alive:
“Tell Chotu I miss his mischievous smile. Tell Ma I’m eating fine—though the truth is, I miss her rotis more than I miss sleep.”

This is not just a letter. It’s a heartbeat captured in ink.

In today’s world of instant texts and video calls, it might come as a surprise that many Indian soldiers still write home with pen and paper—especially those stationed at the country’s harshest and most remote borders. In conflict zones where mobile networks vanish and silence is a form of survival, these letters are more than communication—they're emotional lifelines, filled with truth, tenderness, and untold bravery.
Most of us don’t write letters anymore. But at 18,000 feet above sea level, where time slows and life hangs in the balance, letters matter. They’re not polished or poetic. They’re messy, emotional, sometimes smudged with tears. And they tell us what no official report ever could: what it feels like to live on the edge of war.

A soldier might not say “I love you” on the phone, especially with a line that might get cut any moment. But in a letter, the words spill out:

“If I don’t come back, don’t cry. Raise our son to be kind. To love his country, yes—but to love people even more.”

Every line carries the weight of what might never be said again.
Soldiers in war zones don’t get many luxuries, but love finds a way. Letters to wives and sweethearts are often simple but searing.

One soldier wrote to his wife during a snowstorm patrol in Siachen:

“The snow looks like our wedding day decorations—only colder, and without your laugh.”

He tucked a pressed flower inside the envelope. Fragile, like his hopes.

Another man mailed his wife a bracelet he made from parachute cord. “Something to wear until I return,” he wrote. “Or to keep if I don’t.”
To children, soldiers often write as protectors and gentle fathers.

“I hope you’re helping your mother with dishes,” one wrote to his daughter, “and not just hiding the plates under the bed like last time.”

They tell bedtime stories, draw funny faces in margins, and remind their kids that even in the face of gunfire, their love stays constant.
Not every letter is cheerful.

Some are raw with fear. A young jawan once confessed in a letter to his brother:

“They say real men don’t get scared. I do. But I go anyway.”

Others write about friends who didn’t survive the night.
One letter, found in a fallen soldier’s pocket in Kupwara, simply read:

“Tell my mother I didn’t run.”

Grief seeps through these pages, but so does unimaginable grit.
Indian soldiers have been writing home during wars for over a century. Letters from World War I written in Punjabi, Urdu, and Tamil reveal the same mix of longing and loyalty.

One sepoy from 1915 wrote:

“This is not our war, but it is our dharma to stand.”

That line could’ve been written yesterday by a soldier at Galwan.

During Kargil, too, last letters became the final echoes of heroes. Captain Vijayant Thapar’s letter, written just before his death, still makes hearts ache:

“Don’t mourn. Celebrate that I lived with purpose.”

These aren’t just words. They’re time capsules. Family heirlooms. Legacies that outlive bullets.
For the families back home, every new letter is a moment of relief. A sign their loved one is still breathing.

“I keep them in a box under the bed,” says Renu, wife of a soldier posted in Arunachal. “When I miss him, I take one out and read it like he’s talking to me.”

But when the letters stop—days turn to weeks, and the postman walks past the house—the silence starts to hurt.

“We never said goodbye,” whispered a mother who lost her son in the 2020 Galwan Valley clash. “But I still read his last letter every morning. It’s my prayer now.”
Though technology has reached many parts of the military, frontline soldiers still rely heavily on letters. Some regiments have introduced e-letter systems or satellite phones—but they’re limited, monitored, and brief.

Handwritten letters still hold power.

“There’s something about seeing her handwriting, her doodles on the side,” says one havildar, smiling. “Even her scolding feels like a hug.”
In recent years, writing has also become a form of healing. Army counselors encourage journaling. Some battalions have "quiet corners" where soldiers can sit and write—no rank, no protocol, just thoughts.

Lt. Col. Neha Bhatia, a military psychologist, explains:

“It’s not about grammar. It’s about grief. About grounding yourself when the ground beneath you can explode.”
When a soldier falls, their final letter often becomes more than a goodbye. It becomes the family’s most sacred possession.

A 10-year-old boy in Lucknow wears a pendant that holds a mini scroll—his father's last letter folded inside. “He told me to be brave,” the boy says, “so I wear it every day.”

Letters like these are read at weddings, on birthdays, and anniversaries. They’re read when nothing else can bring comfort. They become the voice that death couldn’t silence.
In the end, these letters are not just messages from war zones. They are lifelines, testaments, and living proof that even in the loneliest corners of war, humanity endures.

When a soldier writes home, he isn’t just sending a note—he’s sending a piece of himself.

So the next time you see a soldier, remember: somewhere in his pocket, there may be a letter folded like prayer—waiting to go home.