The Queen at the Window

The Queen at the Window She stood by the palace window, tall and still, gazing absently at the blurred distance. She had two choices: both unattractive, out of which, she would have to take a decision. Beyond the glass, the kingdom of Virelia stretched like a tired canvas. Golden rooftops dulled by years of tax wars. Market roads half-filled. Soldiers at gateposts pretending not to notice the unease that had settled into the city like dust. Inside, the palace was quieter than it should have been. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that suggests something has already gone wrong, and everyone is simply waiting for permission to speak about it. Queen Altheira did not turn when she heard footsteps behind her. “You’ve been standing there for an hour,” said Lord Commander Roderic. “I know.” “That is not an answer.” “It is the only one I have right now.” ________________________________________ Two choices. She let the thought return, because it refused to leave. Choice one: sign the treaty with the northern coalition. Surrender half the mining rights in the Ironvale Mountains in exchange for military protection. Choice two: reject the treaty and prepare for war. Both choices were dressed differently. Both were knives. One cut slowly. The other cut immediately. ________________________________________ “I assume they are waiting for your decision,” Roderic said carefully. “They always are.” “And?” “And I am tired of being the reason people sleep peacefully or die screaming.” That made him silent. Good. Silence in Roderic usually meant he understood something unpleasant. ________________________________________ A gust of wind slipped through the window frame, carrying distant sounds of the city. A child laughing somewhere far below. A merchant shouting over prices. Life pretending to continue as if decisions made in palaces were not slowly reshaping its bones. Altheira closed her eyes briefly. She remembered her father standing in this same spot. Different window. Different war. Same expression. Same impossible choice. History, she realized, did not repeat itself. It simply refused to offer new options. ________________________________________ “You could delay,” Roderic said. “I already have.” “For how long?” “Too long.” That was the truth no one wanted to say aloud. Delays were not neutral. They were decisions disguised as patience. ________________________________________ A knock came. Soft. Careful. A servant entered, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty… the envoys from Kharadon request audience again.” Of course they did. They had been waiting in the eastern hall for three days. Waiting was their strategy. They believed time softened rulers. They were not wrong. But they underestimated what time also sharpened. ________________________________________ “Tell them I will respond soon,” she said. The servant hesitated. “They said… soon is no longer acceptable.” Roderic stepped forward. “That is not how diplomacy works.” The servant lowered his eyes. “It is how they say it works, sir.” When the door closed behind him, the room felt heavier. ________________________________________ “So it begins,” Roderic muttered. “No,” Altheira said quietly. “It already began. We are just late to noticing.” ________________________________________ She turned finally from the window. Her reflection in the glass lingered a moment longer than expected. A crown that felt heavier every year. Eyes that no longer belonged entirely to youth or innocence. A face trained to remain composed even when the mind was not. She had learned early that a queen’s expression was not hers. It belonged to the kingdom. ________________________________________ “Tell me honestly,” she said, walking toward the table where maps lay spread like wounded animals. “If we sign the treaty, how much do we lose?” Roderic did not hesitate. “Economically? A generation of independence.” “And if we refuse?” He paused. “Then we gamble the kingdom itself.” ________________________________________ There it was. The shape of the dilemma stripped of decoration. Lose slowly. Or risk losing everything. ________________________________________ She traced a finger over the Ironvale Mountains on the map. So small. So quiet. And yet everything depended on them. Gold veins. Iron deposits. Trade routes. Borders drawn by men who had never stood here and felt the weight of consequences. ________________________________________ “You know what my father would have done,” Roderic said. “I do.” “He would have chosen war.” “Yes.” “And your mother?” Altheira smiled faintly. “She would have sold the mountains before anyone realized they were missing.” That earned a short breath of amusement from him. “Neither helped them survive long.” “No,” she said. “They didn’t.” ________________________________________ The kingdom had history like a scar. Not clean. Not instructive. Just persistent. ________________________________________ A second knock interrupted them. This time no servant entered. Only a sealed letter slid beneath the door. Roderic picked it up cautiously, broke the wax seal. His expression changed as he read. “That was fast.” “What?” He handed it to her. Altheira read. And felt the room tilt slightly. ________________________________________ The letter was from Kharadon. But not the treaty. A threat disguised as courtesy. If Virelia refused, border fortresses would be “temporarily secured for stability purposes.” That was invasion dressed as concern. ________________________________________ “They are already moving troops,” Roderic said. “Yes,” she replied softly. “So the decision is made for you.” “No,” she said. “They are trying to make it feel that way.” ________________________________________ She folded the letter carefully. Not because it deserved care. But because she needed control over at least one small thing in that moment. ________________________________________ “Call the council,” she said. Roderic frowned. “Now?” “Yes.” “It’s midnight.” “So is the threat.” ________________________________________ The council chamber filled slowly. Nobles arriving in varying states of confusion, irritation, or fear. Fear was the most honest of them all. They always arrived dressed in politics but carried anxiety underneath. ________________________________________ When Altheira entered, conversation died instantly. She did not sit. She stood at the head of the table. That alone changed the atmosphere. Queens who sit are negotiating. Queens who stand are deciding. ________________________________________ “The situation has changed,” she said. No preamble. No easing in. Just truth. Roderic placed the letter on the table. Gasps followed. Whispers. Anger. Denial. Predictable reactions to irreversible information. ________________________________________ “We cannot accept this provocation,” one lord said immediately. “We must strike first,” said another. “We must sign the treaty immediately,” countered a third. Chaos always produced too many answers. None of them useful. ________________________________________ Altheira raised a hand. Silence returned reluctantly. She looked at each of them. Not as allies. Not as enemies. As fragments of a single burden she alone had to carry. ________________________________________ “Both choices lead to war,” she said calmly. That sentence landed heavier than any argument. “No treaty will save us from their ambition.” “And no war guarantees survival.” She paused. “So tell me… what are we actually choosing?” ________________________________________ No one answered. Because the truth had become too simple. They were not choosing between peace and war. They were choosing between control and surrender. Between shaping the outcome… or letting someone else do it. ________________________________________ Roderic stepped forward slightly. “There is a third option,” he said carefully. All eyes turned to him. Altheira already knew she would not like it. ________________________________________ “We offer the mountains,” he said. “But not fully.” “We split control. We delay full access. We bind them with legal constraints that slow their expansion.” “A compromise,” a lord muttered. “A delay tactic,” another corrected. “Survival,” Roderic said sharply. ________________________________________ The room erupted again. Arguments clashing like swords in air. Altheira listened. Not to the noise. To what lay beneath it. Fear of loss. Fear of weakness. Fear of responsibility. ________________________________________ Finally she spoke. “And if they refuse even that?” Silence. Because everyone already knew the answer. Then war becomes unavoidable. ________________________________________ She dismissed the council. Not because she was finished. But because she had reached the point where more words only disguised exhaustion. When they left, the chamber felt emptier than before. Or perhaps clearer. ________________________________________ Roderic remained. “You haven’t decided,” he said. “I have.” He studied her. “You don’t sound certain.” “That’s because certainty is a luxury for people who are not responsible for consequences.” ________________________________________ She walked back to the window. Night had deepened. The city lights below flickered like uncertain thoughts. Somewhere out there, soldiers trained. Somewhere, envoys waited. Somewhere, armies moved. And she alone had to decide what all of it meant. ________________________________________ “I keep thinking,” she said quietly. “About what?” “Whether any queen has ever made the right choice.” Roderic did not answer immediately. Then: “No.” That honesty surprised even him. ________________________________________ She exhaled slowly. “Then why do we pretend there is one?” “Because pretending allows us to act.” “And action matters?” “More than perfection.” ________________________________________ She turned back toward the table. The treaty lay there. Alongside the warning letter. Two futures. Both incomplete. Both dangerous. ________________________________________ Finally, she took a quill. Dipped it in ink. Her hand hovered above the treaty. Roderic watched without speaking. The entire kingdom, it felt like, was waiting inside that pause. ________________________________________ She signed. Not because it was safe. Not because it was right. But because it was the only choice that kept the kingdom from collapsing into immediate chaos. A controlled wound instead of a fatal one. ________________________________________ When she finished, she did not feel relief. Only continuation. Decisions rarely end anything. They only define the next problem. ________________________________________ Roderic looked at the document. “You’ve bought us time,” he said. “Yes.” “How much?” She looked back at the window. “Enough to prepare for what comes after time runs out.” ________________________________________ Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere far away, something moved across borders. Somewhere, someone prepared for the consequence of her decision. And somewhere in the silence of the palace, Queen Altheira finally understood something she had been avoiding: A ruler is never choosing between good and bad. Only between different forms of loss. ________________________________________ She remained by the window long after everyone left. Still. Tall. Unmoving. Watching a kingdom that believed she had just saved it. When in truth, she had only changed the shape of its danger. And as the night deepened, she whispered to herself—not as a queen this time, but as a human being who had finally stopped expecting easy answers: “Both choices were unattractive.” And she had chosen anyway.

The Reverse Count

The Reverse Count I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” He didn’t turn around. That was good. Or bad. I couldn’t decide anymore. The room felt too small for what was about to happen. Not physically small—mentally small, like the walls had been pressed inward by expectation. Every ticking second sounded louder than it should have, even though there was no clock in sight. Only me. Only him. And the countdown. “Six… five…” His hand reached for the door handle. My pulse reacted before my thoughts did. A sharp spike of adrenaline, like my body knew something my mind was still refusing to accept. “Four…” I had rehearsed this moment a hundred times. No. A thousand. In the mirror. In my sleep. In half-awake panic at 3:00 a.m. when reality and imagination blur into the same exhausted room. But none of those rehearsals included the way my throat would tighten when it actually began. “Three…” He paused. Just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice. But I noticed. I always noticed small things. That was my problem. Or my gift. Or both. “Two…” I shifted my weight. The envelope in my coat pocket suddenly felt heavier than it should. Not because of paper—but because of meaning. Meaning has weight. People underestimate that. “One…” Silence. The kind that arrives right before something irreversible. He opened the door. ________________________________________ And then everything broke. Not loudly. Not dramatically. That would have been easier. It broke quietly, like glass cracking under pressure that had been building for too long. He stepped outside. I exhaled. And my countdown finished—not in relief, but in awareness. Because nothing happened. At least not yet. ________________________________________ I followed him. Not immediately. That would have looked desperate. Instead, I waited exactly seven seconds. A decision I had made months ago when I first started planning this moment. Seven seconds is the perfect gap between intention and pursuit. Long enough to appear casual. Short enough not to lose the thread. Then I stepped into the corridor. ________________________________________ The building was ordinary. That was the most disturbing part. Ordinary buildings should not contain extraordinary consequences. But they do. More often than people admit. He walked ahead, unaware. Or pretending to be unaware. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. I adjusted my pace to match his distance. Not too close. Not too far. Distance is strategy. Distance is safety. Distance is deception. ________________________________________ “Ten… nine… eight…” I restarted the countdown under my breath. Not because I needed it. Because it anchored me. Numbers don’t lie. People do. But numbers… numbers just proceed. Backward. Forward. Indifferent. “Seven… six…” He turned left toward the stairwell. Good. That matched the map in my mind. The map I had drawn, erased, redrawn, and memorized until it stopped feeling like planning and started feeling like memory. Except it wasn’t memory. Not yet. “Five…” My fingers brushed the edge of the envelope again. Inside it was everything. Proof. Truth. Or what I believed truth to be. Those are not always the same thing. ________________________________________ The stairwell was empty. Perfect. I paused at the entrance. Listened. Footsteps above. Two floors up. He was moving faster now. Why? Did he sense something? Or was I simply assigning meaning where there was none? Humans do that. We are meaning-making machines trapped in uncertainty. “Four…” I started climbing. Quietly. Carefully. Each step deliberate. Each breath controlled. The kind of control that takes years to learn and seconds to lose. “Three…” Halfway up. A flicker of doubt. Small. Unwelcome. Persistent. What if I was wrong? What if this entire sequence was built on an interpretation rather than fact? I pushed the thought away. Not because it wasn’t valid. Because it was dangerous. ________________________________________ “Two…” The second floor landing came into view. Empty hallway. Doors on both sides. Some open. Some closed. All indifferent. He had turned right. I saw the faint movement of his jacket disappearing around the corner. “One…” I reached the landing. Stopped. Listened again. Nothing. The silence was no longer neutral. It felt aware. As if the building itself was watching the progression of events unfold. ________________________________________ I stepped forward. Turned the corner. And found him standing still. Waiting. That was not part of the plan. ________________________________________ He looked at me. Not surprised. Not shocked. Just… resigned. As if he had already arrived at the same conclusion I had been circling for months. “You’re early,” he said. My throat tightened. I hadn’t prepared for dialogue. Only sequence. Only action. Only countdown. “You knew?” I asked. He smiled faintly. “No. But I suspected.” “That’s not the same thing.” “No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.” ________________________________________ The envelope suddenly felt like a mistake. Or a confession. Or both. “I didn’t want it to be like this,” I said. “Then why is it?” he asked. I hesitated. Because that question didn’t have a rehearsed answer. Only truth. And truth is messy. “I ran out of alternatives.” He studied me for a moment. Then nodded slowly. “That’s usually how it starts.” ________________________________________ I checked my watch. I couldn’t help it anymore. 11:42. Still time. But not much. Time never feels like much when you are inside its final stretch. “I need you to understand,” I said. “I do,” he replied. That confused me. “No, you don’t.” He stepped closer. “I think I do.” ________________________________________ I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out. This was not how confrontation was supposed to feel. Confrontation was supposed to be clear. Decisive. Sharp. This felt like standing in fog and arguing with a shape you weren’t sure was real. ________________________________________ “You lied,” I finally said. “I omitted,” he corrected gently. “That’s the same thing.” “It depends on what you think truth is for.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is,” he said. “Just not the one you want.” ________________________________________ My grip tightened on the envelope. Inside it: documents, photographs, timestamps, evidence of a pattern I had recognized too late and understood too quickly. Or believed I understood. The difference between recognition and understanding is dangerously small. ________________________________________ “Ten…” I whispered again. But this time I didn’t reverse it. I let it go forward. “Ten,” I said louder. He frowned. “What are you doing?” “Counting.” “To what?” “Zero.” ________________________________________ His expression changed slightly. Not fear. Not confusion. Recognition. “Oh,” he said quietly. That single syllable carried too much weight. ________________________________________ I stepped back. He didn’t move. Neither of us did. For a moment, it felt like the entire building had paused between seconds. Like time itself was waiting to see which interpretation would win. ________________________________________ “Did you ever plan to tell me?” I asked. “Yes.” “When?” He hesitated. “That depends on whether you believe timing matters more than truth.” I laughed once. Short. Unpleasant. “You sound rehearsed.” He shook his head. “No. Just late.” ________________________________________ The countdown in my head collapsed. Not reversed anymore. Not structured. Just numbers dissolving into noise. “Ten… nine… eight…” But now it didn’t matter. Because I had reached the point where counting no longer controlled anything. Only awareness remained. ________________________________________ “I trusted you,” I said. “I know,” he replied. “That’s why this hurts.” “That’s usually how trust works.” ________________________________________ Silence returned. Not empty. Full. Heavy. Alive in a way silence shouldn’t be. ________________________________________ Finally, I held out the envelope. He looked at it but didn’t take it. “Do you want me to read it?” he asked. “Yes.” “Or do you want me to admit it?” I hesitated. That was the real question. Not what I wanted him to read. But what I wanted him to become after reading it. Truth or confession. Two very different endings. ________________________________________ “I don’t know,” I admitted. For the first time. He nodded. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said.” It wasn’t a compliment. But it felt like one. ________________________________________ He took the envelope. Slowly. Carefully. As if it might explode. Or disappear. Or rewrite itself. ________________________________________ “Are you going to stop counting now?” he asked. I realized I had stopped. Without noticing. Time had resumed its normal rhythm. Irregular. Uncontrolled. Human. “I think I already did,” I said. ________________________________________ He opened the envelope. And read. I watched his face change. Not dramatically. Subtly. The way understanding arrives when it has nowhere else to go. ________________________________________ When he finished, he looked at me. “You were right,” he said. A pause. “But not entirely.” That was worse than denial. Worse than agreement. It was complication. ________________________________________ “What happens now?” I asked. He handed the envelope back. “That depends on whether you want zero to mean ending… or beginning.” ________________________________________ I looked at the papers. Then at him. Then at the hallway behind us. Time continued. Quietly. Indifferently. As it always does. ________________________________________ “Zero,” I whispered. And this time, I didn’t know whether I was counting down… Or stepping forward.

The Wheels of Time

The Wheels of Time 1. I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop. 2. I have said that sentence so many times in my head that it no longer feels like a wish. It feels like a fact I am repeating to a world that refuses to listen. 3. Time, however, is not interested in being negotiated with. 4. It keeps moving. 5. Always moving. 6. Even when everything inside you begs it to freeze. 7. ________________________________________ 8. It began on an ordinary Thursday. 9. That is what makes it unbearable. 10. If it had been a stormy night, or a dramatic farewell, or a moment marked by prophecy, perhaps I could have made peace with it. 11. But it was Thursday. 12. Office emails. Half-finished tea. A phone on silent. A life that looked exactly like it always had. 13. My daughter, Anya, had texted me in the morning. 14. “Pick me up at 5:30. Don’t forget.” 15. I replied with a thumbs-up emoji. 16. That was the last conversation we ever had. 17. ________________________________________ 18. At 4:47 PM, my phone rang. 19. Unknown number. 20. I ignored it. 21. At 4:52 PM, it rang again. 22. This time I picked up. 23. The voice on the other end was calm. Too calm. 24. “Are you Mr. Arvind Sharma?” 25. “Yes.” 26. “This is City Hospital. There has been an accident involving your daughter.” 27. The rest of the sentence dissolved into noise. 28. Accident. 29. Daughter. 30. Hospital. 31. Come immediately. 32. I remember standing up too quickly. The chair fell behind me. Someone in the office asked a question. I didn’t hear it. 33. I ran. 34. Not walked. 35. Not drove. 36. Ran. 37. Even though I knew I could not outrun what was already happening. 38. ________________________________________ 39. Hospitals do not feel like places built for humans. 40. They feel like places where reality is processed. 41. Where it is sorted into acceptable and unacceptable versions. 42. A nurse at the reception asked me to sit. 43. I refused. 44. Another asked for details. 45. I had none. 46. Only a name. 47. Anya. 48. Age sixteen. 49. My daughter. 50. The word “critical” was used. 51. Then “surgery.” 52. Then silence. 53. Too many words. Not enough meaning. 54. ________________________________________ 55. I remember the waiting room most. 56. Not because of what happened there. 57. But because of what did not. 58. Time continued. 59. People laughed in corners. 60. Phones rang. 61. A child cried. 62. A man drank tea. 63. The world refused to acknowledge that mine had stopped. 64. Or perhaps mine was the only one that had stopped. 65. That is the cruel trick of grief-in-progress. 66. It isolates you inside a moving world. 67. ________________________________________ 68. At 8:12 PM, a doctor came out. 69. He looked tired. 70. Not sad. 71. Doctors are trained not to look sad. 72. “Are you Anya’s father?” 73. “Yes.” 74. “We did everything we could.” 75. That sentence. 76. That sentence is a kind of death on its own. 77. Not immediate. 78. Delayed. 79. Spreading slowly through the body. 80. I asked questions. 81. He answered with more sentences that meant nothing and everything at once. 82. Brain injury. 83. Internal bleeding. 84. Trauma. 85. Unstable. 86. Then finally: 87. “I’m sorry.” 88. ________________________________________ 89. I do not remember signing papers. 90. I do not remember calling anyone. 91. I do not remember the drive home. 92. Memory stopped working like a recording device that night. 93. It became fragments. 94. Smells. 95. Fluorescent lights. 96. The sound of paper turning. 97. A clock ticking somewhere too loudly. 98. ________________________________________ 99. At 2:03 AM, she died. 100. My daughter. 101. Anya. 102. Sixteen years old. 103. The world did not pause. 104. It did not even hesitate. 105. A notification came on my phone that night. 106. “Battery low.” 107. That felt obscene. 108. ________________________________________ 109. The funeral was two days later. 110. People said things. 111. Words like “strong,” “angel,” “time heals.” 112. None of them reached me. 113. My wife did not cry. 114. Not because she didn’t feel it. 115. Because she had already left emotionally. 116. Grief does not arrive equally. 117. It chooses different victims at different times. 118. Mine arrived late. 119. Hers arrived early. 120. Or perhaps we were both wrong in different ways. 121. ________________________________________ 122. After the funeral, I stopped working. 123. Not officially at first. 124. Just… stopped participating. 125. I would sit at my desk and stare at emails I could not read. 126. I would eat food without tasting it. 127. I would wake up and forget why. 128. Time became a corridor I walked through without direction. 129. People said I needed distraction. 130. I wanted reversal. 131. Not distraction. 132. Reversal. 133. ________________________________________ 134. The house became a museum of absence. 135. Her shoes still near the door. 136. Her books still on the shelf. 137. Her laughter still echoing in places memory refused to erase. 138. My wife eventually moved to her sister’s house. 139. “We need space,” she said. 140. What she meant was: I cannot survive inside this version of you. 141. And she was right. 142. ________________________________________ 143. Months passed. 144. Then a year. 145. Then something worse than grief arrived. 146. Regret. 147. Grief says: this happened. 148. Regret says: you could have prevented it. 149. They are not the same thing. 150. Regret is heavier. 151. It is personalized suffering. 152. It turns memory into accusation. 153. ________________________________________ 154. I replayed everything. 155. The morning text. 156. The thumbs-up emoji. 157. The unknown number I ignored at 4:47. 158. What if I had answered earlier? 159. What if I had left sooner? 160. What if I had driven faster? 161. What if I had been a different kind of father? 162. These questions are pointless. 163. But the mind does not care about usefulness. 164. It cares about punishment. 165. ________________________________________ 166. One evening, I found myself standing in her room. 167. Everything was exactly as she left it. 168. A notebook open on her desk. 169. A pen resting beside it. 170. A half-finished drawing of something she had never explained. 171. I sat on her bed. 172. And for the first time in months, I spoke aloud. 173. “I wish I could turn back the clock.” 174. My voice sounded foreign in that room. 175. “I wish I could stop time.” 176. The words hung there. 177. Useless. 178. True. 179. Useless. 180. ________________________________________ 181. That night, something strange happened. 182. Or perhaps my mind simply broke in a quieter way than expected. 183. The clock in her room stopped. 184. Not metaphorically. 185. Literally. 186. The second hand froze mid-motion. 187. I stared at it for a long time. 188. Then laughed. 189. Because grief eventually removes the boundary between observation and meaning. 190. ________________________________________ 191. The next morning, the clock worked again. 192. I told myself it was a coincidence. 193. But I checked it every hour anyway. 194. Because grief makes scientists of ordinary men. 195. Not because it reveals truth. 196. Because it refuses to allow certainty. 197. ________________________________________ 198. Weeks later, I returned to work. 199. Or attempted to. 200. People avoided asking personal questions. 201. Which was kind. 202. And unbearable. 203. Because kindness becomes another reminder of what you have lost. 204. ________________________________________ 205. One evening, I met a man at a railway platform. 206. He was sitting alone, watching trains pass. 207. He said, without looking at me: 208. “You want to stop time.” 209. I froze. 210. He smiled slightly. 211. “You all do.” 212. I asked him who he was. 213. He said nothing. 214. Only pointed at the tracks. 215. “Time is like that.” 216. “What?” 217. “A train you think you missed.” 218. ________________________________________ 219. I don’t know why I stayed talking to him. 220. Perhaps because grief recognizes itself in strangers. 221. Perhaps because I had stopped making decisions consciously. 222. He told me something that night. 223. Not scientific. 224. Not logical. 225. Something else. 226. He said: 227. “Time doesn’t move forward. It moves through you.” 228. I told him that made no sense. 229. He nodded. 230. “That’s why it hurts.” 231. ________________________________________ 232. After that, I began noticing strange things. 233. Not supernatural. 234. Not dramatic. 235. Subtle distortions. 236. A conversation repeating itself in memory with different outcomes. 237. A moment in the street where I felt I had already lived it before. 238. A dream in which I saved her. 239. Then woke up to a different reality. 240. Grief does not alter time. 241. It alters perception of sequence. 242. It makes memory porous. 243. ________________________________________ 244. Years passed. 245. Life rebuilt itself without permission. 246. Bills arrived. 247. Weather changed. 248. Seasons rotated. 249. The world refused to end. 250. That is one of its most cruel features. 251. It continues. 252. Regardless of meaning. 253. ________________________________________ 254. One day, I found myself at the hospital again. 255. Not for tragedy. 256. For a checkup. 257. The same building. 258. Different patients. 259. Different emergencies. 260. Same indifferent corridors. 261. I stood outside the room where she had died. 262. And for the first time, I did not feel panic. 263. Only stillness. 264. ________________________________________ 265. A young father was sitting nearby, holding a small boy’s hand. 266. The child was laughing. 267. The father was crying silently. 268. I understood both emotions. 269. That is the strange gift of loss. 270. It removes the illusion of uniqueness. 271. It shows you the shared architecture of pain. 272. ________________________________________ 273. I sat beside him. 274. He did not speak at first. 275. Then he asked: 276. “Does it ever stop hurting?” 277. I wanted to lie. 278. But grief has no patience for lies. 279. So I said: 280. “No.” 281. He nodded. 282. Then I added: 283. “But it changes shape.” 284. ________________________________________ 285. On my way home, I thought about time again. 286. Not as enemy. 287. Not as force. 288. As condition. 289. Something we exist inside of, not something we control. 290. The desire to stop it, I realized, is not really about time. 291. It is about love. 292. We want to freeze what we cannot bear to lose. 293. ________________________________________ 294. That night, I returned to her room. 295. The clock ticked normally. 296. I sat there for a long time. 297. And for the first time in years, I did not ask to go back. 298. Instead, I said something different. 299. “I understand now.” 300. Not forgiveness. 301. Not acceptance. 302. Understanding. 303. There is a difference. 304. ________________________________________ 305. If I could turn back the clock, I would. 306. That part of me has not changed. 307. But I no longer believe time is something to defeat. 308. It is something we carry. 309. Every moment we loved. 310. Every moment we lost. 311. Every moment we survived. 312. ________________________________________ 313. Before I left the room, I touched her notebook. 314. It was still open. 315. On the last page, she had written a sentence: 316. “Dad, you worry too much about time. It’s just days.” 317. I smiled. 318. For the first time in a very long time. 319. Then I closed the notebook gently. 320. Not to preserve the past. 321. But to allow it to remain where it belongs. 322. ________________________________________ 323. Time did not stop. 324. It never does. 325. But something inside me finally did. 326. The need to reverse it. 327. The need to undo it. 328. The need to argue with it. 329. And in that quiet surrender, I discovered something I had not expected. 330. Not peace. 331. Not happiness. 332. Something smaller. 333. Something real. 334. Continuity. 335. I still wish I could turn back the clock. 336. But now, when I say it, I understand what I am really saying. 337. I wish love did not require time to become memory. 338. I wish memory did not require loss to exist. 339. But it does. 340. And so I walk forward. 341. Not because I have accepted time. 342. But because I have finally learned how to live beside it.

Not Bonding with Ruskin

Not Bonding with Ruskin She decided on a whim, as she got off the Shatabdi at Dehradun, that while in Mussoorie, she was not going to bond with Ruskin. With James maybe. But definitely not with Ruskin. The decision arrived suddenly, somewhere between the train slowing into the station and the porter asking whether she needed help with her luggage. It was, she admitted to herself, a ridiculous resolution. But then, many of her most important decisions had been ridiculous. Moving to Delhi after graduation. Marrying a man she had known for four months. Divorcing him seven years later. Taking a solo vacation to Mussoorie at forty-two. Life had rarely rewarded her sensible choices. Perhaps absurdity deserved a chance. So as she stepped onto the platform, dragging her suitcase behind her, she repeated the promise. No bonding with Ruskin. Absolutely none. ________________________________________ The problem was that Mussoorie seemed determined to sabotage her. The taxi driver who drove her up the winding road pointed toward a distant hillside. "Madam, that's where the famous writer lives." She immediately looked away. "I didn't ask." The driver appeared confused. "I was only telling you." "I know." The driver wisely concentrated on driving. ________________________________________ Her hotel wasn't helping either. The receptionist handed her a brochure. The front page featured cheerful illustrations of mist-covered hills, old cottages, mountain trails, and, inevitably, references to a certain beloved author associated with the town. She folded the brochure shut. "No." The receptionist blinked. "Madam?" "Nothing." ________________________________________ By evening she found herself walking along the Mall Road. The mountain air carried the scent of pine and damp earth. Clouds drifted lazily across the hills. Families strolled. Tourists clicked photographs. Vendors sold roasted corn. Everything felt charming. Dangerously charming. The sort of charm that encouraged literary sentiment. The sort that led unsuspecting visitors into emotional relationships with places, memories, and writers. She wasn't falling for it. ________________________________________ Her name was Kavya. An English professor. Which made her situation even worse. Most visitors came to Mussoorie hoping to experience mountain beauty. Kavya arrived burdened with decades of literature. Every second shop sold books. Every third tourist carried one. Every fourth conversation involved someone's favorite childhood reading memory. She felt surrounded. ________________________________________ The next morning she escaped to a small café. Or attempted to. The café walls were covered with framed quotations. Half of them belonged to mountain writers. One quotation in particular immediately annoyed her. Not because it was bad. Because it was annoyingly good. She found herself reading it three times. Then angrily ordered tea. ________________________________________ An elderly man occupied the neighboring table. He watched her with amusement. "Fighting with literature?" She nearly choked. "What?" "The quotation." He pointed toward the wall. "You've glared at it for ten minutes." "I wasn't glaring." "You absolutely were." Kavya narrowed her eyes. The old man grinned. He looked like the sort of person who enjoyed provoking strangers. ________________________________________ "Are you a tourist?" he asked. "Yes." "Looking for peace?" "No." "Adventure?" "No." "Inspiration?" "Definitely not." The old man laughed. "Then why are you here?" The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shrugged. "I don't know." ________________________________________ It was the most honest answer she had given in months. Perhaps years. The old man seemed satisfied. "Excellent." "What is?" "Not knowing." ________________________________________ They spoke for nearly an hour. About books. Travel. Aging. Mountain weather. The conversation flowed effortlessly. Before leaving, the old man introduced himself. "James D'Souza." Kavya froze. James. Interesting. Her ridiculous vow had specifically allowed bonding with James. Though admittedly not this James. Still. Technically acceptable. ________________________________________ Over the following days they met repeatedly. Entirely by accident. Or perhaps by Mussoorie's mysterious ability to ensure the same people continually cross paths. James had retired from teaching history. He lived in Dehradun. Spent several weeks each year in Mussoorie. Loved conversations. Disliked certainty. Possessed an irritating habit of asking uncomfortable questions. ________________________________________ "Why did you really come here?" he asked one afternoon. "I told you. Vacation." "That's the official version." "And the unofficial version?" "You tell me." Kavya sighed. She hated perceptive people. ________________________________________ The truth was embarrassingly simple. Six months earlier her mother had died. Not suddenly. Not unexpectedly. But permanently. And permanence altered everything. For forty-two years her mother had existed somewhere in the background of life. A constant presence. A reliable voice. A destination for phone calls. Then she wasn't. The absence unsettled her. More than she admitted to friends. More than she admitted to herself. ________________________________________ "I keep picking up my phone." she said quietly. "To call her." James nodded. "And then?" "I remember." The mountain breeze rustled nearby trees. Neither spoke for several moments. Grief rarely required clever responses. ________________________________________ That evening Kavya walked alone. Mist rolled across the hills. Streetlights glowed softly through the fog. The town felt suspended between reality and dream. For the first time she allowed herself to miss her mother properly. Not politely. Not efficiently. Properly. The experience left her exhausted. And strangely lighter. ________________________________________ The following morning disaster struck. Or what passed for disaster in a hill station. Heavy rain trapped everyone indoors. The hotel's internet failed. Electricity vanished intermittently. Tourists complained. Staff apologized. Nature ignored both groups. ________________________________________ Boredom drove Kavya into the hotel's small library. The room contained perhaps two hundred books. Half were travel guides. The remainder consisted largely of novels. And there, occupying an entire shelf, stood the enemy. Mountain literature. Specifically the works she had promised herself not to bond with. She stared at them suspiciously. The books stared back. Patiently. Confidently. Like predators aware their prey would eventually weaken. ________________________________________ She lasted thirty-seven minutes. Then picked one up. Purely for academic reasons. She told herself this repeatedly. Academic reasons. Research. Professional curiosity. Nothing emotional. Absolutely no bonding. ________________________________________ Three hours later she was still reading. Rain hammered the windows. The world disappeared behind clouds. And somewhere during chapter four, Kavya realized she had been betrayed. Not by the book. By herself. Because what she connected with wasn't nostalgia or mountain charm. It was loneliness. The quiet observations. The ordinary lives. The gentle attention paid to overlooked people. The things her mother used to notice. The things she herself had stopped noticing. ________________________________________ The realization annoyed her profoundly. ________________________________________ That evening she confessed everything to James. "I failed." "At what?" "My resolution." "What resolution?" Kavya explained. The absurd vow. The determination not to become another tourist emotionally attached to mountain literature. James listened carefully. Then laughed so hard he nearly spilled his tea. ________________________________________ "You're ridiculous." "I know." "Imagine traveling hundreds of kilometers to declare war on a writer." "It made sense at the time." "No." he said. "It really didn't." ________________________________________ The conversation drifted elsewhere. Yet the subject lingered. Why had she resisted so strongly? Why had a harmless literary connection felt threatening? The answer arrived unexpectedly. Because bonding required vulnerability. And vulnerability frightened her. Not writers. Not books. Not mountains. Vulnerability. ________________________________________ Since her divorce, Kavya had become increasingly skilled at emotional distance. She attended social gatherings. Maintained friendships. Performed happiness. Yet genuine connection felt dangerous. Loss had taught her caution. Her mother's death reinforced it. Caring deeply meant risking pain. So she gradually stopped. Not entirely. Just enough. ________________________________________ Mussoorie quietly challenged that strategy. Not through dramatic events. Through small ones. A conversation. A view. A memory. A book. A stranger becoming a friend. Tiny cracks appearing in carefully constructed walls. ________________________________________ A week into her stay, James invited her on a walk. Not the usual tourist route. A quieter trail. Less crowded. More beautiful. The path wound through forests of oak and deodar. Birdsong echoed between trees. Sunlight filtered through branches. The world seemed impossibly peaceful. ________________________________________ Halfway through the walk they encountered an abandoned cottage. Stone walls. Broken windows. Wildflowers reclaiming the garden. The structure looked forgotten. Yet somehow dignified. James stopped. "I love this place." "Why?" "It reminds me that everything passes." Kavya frowned. "That's depressing." "Not necessarily." He smiled. "It also means everything matters." ________________________________________ They sat nearby for nearly an hour. Talking. Or rather, allowing conversation to wander wherever it pleased. Eventually James mentioned his wife. Past tense. She had died nine years earlier. Cancer. Slow. Cruel. Final. ________________________________________ "You never remarried?" Kavya asked. "No." "Weren't you lonely?" James considered. "Often." "Then why not?" He shrugged. "Because loneliness and love aren't opposites." The answer puzzled her. Seeing her confusion, he continued. "I still loved her." Kavya looked toward the distant hills. The statement carried unexpected weight. Not tragic. Not romantic. Simply true. ________________________________________ That night she thought about her own marriage. The failure of it. The bitterness that followed. The years spent defining herself through disappointment. Perhaps she had become too attached to old narratives. Perhaps everyone did. ________________________________________ The final days of her trip arrived quickly. Mountain vacations possessed a strange relationship with time. Days felt long. Weeks disappeared. Suddenly departure loomed. ________________________________________ On her last evening, Kavya walked through town alone. The familiar streets felt different now. Not because Mussoorie had changed. Because she had. Slightly. Enough. ________________________________________ She passed bookstores. Cafés. Old houses. Mist drifting across rooftops. Ordinary scenes transformed by attention. For the first time she understood why people formed attachments to places. Not because places were magical. Because they provided opportunities to notice life. And noticing was increasingly rare. ________________________________________ Near sunset she found herself overlooking the valley. Clouds glowed orange and gold. The horizon stretched endlessly. For several minutes she simply watched. No photographs. No messages. No distractions. Just watching. ________________________________________ A voice interrupted her thoughts. "Bonded yet?" It was James. Naturally. He appeared carrying two cups of tea. She accepted one. "Possibly." "With whom?" Kavya smiled. The answer surprised even her. "Not with any writer." "No?" "No." She looked toward the mountains. "With the town, maybe." James nodded. "That's usually how it begins." ________________________________________ The next morning she boarded the train back to Delhi. As the landscape rolled past the window, she reflected on the strange success of her failure. She had arrived determined not to connect. Not to care. Not to become sentimental. Instead she had done exactly those things. Not dramatically. Quietly. The way most important changes occur. ________________________________________ Several months later, while organizing bookshelves at home, she discovered the novel she had purchased in Mussoorie. The one she had pretended not to like. A bookmark still rested between its pages. She opened it. A small note fell out. James's handwriting. Just one sentence. The hills don't change people. They merely introduce them to themselves. Kavya laughed. Then placed the note back inside the book. Carefully. Tenderly. The way one preserves something unexpectedly valuable. After all, she had gone to Mussoorie determined not to bond with Ruskin. With James maybe. But definitely not with Ruskin. In the end she discovered that the real connection wasn't with either. It was with grief. Memory. Solitude. Friendship. And the inconvenient truth that closing oneself off from disappointment also closes the door on wonder. The mountains had taught her that. Though she would never admit it quite so directly. Some resolutions, after all, deserve to be broken quietly.

The Question She Couldn't Stop Asking

The Question She Couldn't Stop Asking “Healthy flirting is a term introduced by perverted men who want to lend legitimacy to their extramarital dalliances. Flirting invariably has a sexual connotation to it.” She got up from her seat and walked around the room gesticulating and muttering something to herself. Suddenly she stopped, turned back, looked at Sanjay and asked, “Did my husband sleep with her? You are his friend. Did he ever tell you anything about it?” The question hung in the room like a blade. Sanjay stared at her. For several seconds neither spoke. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows of the apartment. A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the city. “Meera,” he said carefully, “I don't know.” “That's not an answer.” “It's the only honest answer.” She laughed bitterly. “No. It's a convenient answer.” Sanjay leaned back in his chair. This was exactly why he had avoided coming. Exactly why he had ignored her calls for nearly a week. Exactly why he had hoped grief would eventually calm her. Instead, grief had transformed into obsession. And obsession demanded answers. ________________________________________ Three months earlier, Meera's husband, Arvind, had died in a car accident. A wet highway. A speeding truck. An unfortunate moment. The police called it accidental. The insurance company called it accidental. Everyone called it accidental. Everyone except Meera. Not because she believed he had been murdered. Because she believed there were things she hadn't known. Things hidden beneath fifteen years of marriage. Secrets. And every secret seemed to lead back to one woman. Rhea Malhotra. ________________________________________ Rhea worked with Arvind. Marketing executive. Divorced. Attractive. Confident. Independent. Everything Meera disliked. The two women had met several times. Office parties. Corporate dinners. Anniversary celebrations. Rhea had always been pleasant. Friendly. Warm. Perhaps too warm. At least according to Meera. Now, after Arvind's death, every memory appeared suspicious. Every smile. Every conversation. Every glance. The dead have an unfortunate habit of becoming mysteries. ________________________________________ “Why are you asking me this?” Sanjay sighed. “Because you knew him better than anyone.” “That doesn't mean I knew everything.” “You were best friends.” “Yes.” “You drank together.” “Yes.” “You traveled together.” “Yes.” “So tell me.” Her eyes burned into him. “Was there something between them?” ________________________________________ Sanjay rubbed his forehead. The truth was complicated. Not because he knew of an affair. Because he didn't. Yet he couldn't deny certain facts. Arvind and Rhea had been close. Closer than most colleagues. They frequently worked late. Shared projects. Attended conferences. Spoke on the phone often. None of that proved anything. Yet none of it looked particularly innocent either. At least not to a grieving wife. “I honestly don't know.” Meera sat down heavily. For the first time that evening she looked exhausted rather than angry. “What if I never knew him?” The question sounded almost childlike. Sanjay's expression softened. “You knew him.” “Did I?” “Yes.” “What if fifteen years was a lie?” “It wasn't.” “How can you be sure?” Because he had known Arvind. Because he had trusted him. Because despite all the uncertainty, betrayal didn't seem consistent with the man he remembered. Yet certainty felt dangerous. The dead couldn't defend themselves. ________________________________________ A week later Meera found something. And everything changed. ________________________________________ She was sorting through old documents in Arvind's study. Insurance papers. Tax records. Bank statements. The tedious archaeology of adulthood. Then she discovered a small notebook hidden inside a drawer. Not a diary. More like a planner. Most pages contained ordinary notes. Meetings. Appointments. Reminders. Nothing unusual. Until she reached the final section. Several pages had been torn out. Only fragments remained. And on one surviving page she found a sentence. Dinner with R. Must finally tell her. Meera stared. R. Rhea. Who else could it be? Tell her what? Her imagination immediately supplied answers. None pleasant. ________________________________________ That evening she drove directly to Sanjay's apartment. The notebook clenched tightly in her hand. He opened the door. One look at her face told him trouble had arrived. “Look.” She thrust the notebook toward him. Sanjay read the sentence. Then read it again. And sighed. “Oh no.” “What?” “You've already decided what it means.” “What else could it mean?” “A hundred things.” “Name one.” He hesitated. Couldn't. Because honestly, the sentence looked terrible. ________________________________________ The following day Meera did something she had promised herself she would never do. She contacted Rhea. ________________________________________ The meeting took place at a quiet café. Rhea arrived exactly on time. Elegant as always. Calm. Composed. The sight irritated Meera instantly. How dare she appear so relaxed? Didn't she understand what was at stake? “Thank you for meeting me.” Rhea nodded. “I suspected this day would come.” The answer surprised Meera. “You did?” “Yes.” Something in her tone felt strange. Not defensive. Not nervous. Almost sad. ________________________________________ For nearly an hour they spoke. Mostly about Arvind. His work. His habits. His kindness. His flaws. The conversation remained civil. Until Meera finally produced the notebook. And asked the question. Directly. Brutally. Without hesitation. “Were you sleeping with my husband?” The café suddenly seemed very quiet. Rhea looked at her for a long time. Then slowly shook her head. “No.” “You expect me to believe that?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because it's true.” ________________________________________ Meera wanted anger. Denials. Excuses. Something. Instead she found sincerity. And somehow that made everything worse. Because sincere people can still lie. ________________________________________ “Then what was this?” She pointed at the notebook. Rhea read the sentence. Dinner with R. Must finally tell her. Her face changed. Just slightly. Enough for Meera to notice. “What?” Rhea looked away. “Nothing.” “No.” The word came sharply. “What is it?” For the first time uncertainty appeared in Rhea's eyes. And suddenly Meera knew. There was indeed a secret. ________________________________________ “You knew something.” Silence. “You did.” Still silence. “What was he going to tell you?” Rhea closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, her expression had transformed. Decision. Resignation. Acceptance. “Not here.” ________________________________________ Thirty minutes later they sat inside Rhea's apartment. Rain hammered the windows. The city blurred beyond the glass. And for the first time, Meera felt genuinely afraid. Because whatever truth awaited her seemed larger than infidelity. ________________________________________ “Your husband wasn't having an affair with me.” Rhea spoke softly. “Then why were you so close?” “Because he was helping me.” “How?” Rhea inhaled deeply. Then answered. “My daughter.” ________________________________________ The words confused Meera. “What about her?” “She needed surgery.” Meera frowned. She vaguely remembered hearing something. Years ago. A medical issue. A hospital stay. Then it clicked. “Arvind paid?” Rhea nodded. The room spun slightly. “Why?” Another long silence. Then: “Because she was his daughter too.” ________________________________________ Everything stopped. The rain. The room. Time itself. Impossible. Utterly impossible. “No.” Rhea's eyes filled with tears. “I wish it weren't true.” “No.” “It happened before your marriage.” Meera stared. Unable to process. Unable to breathe. Unable to think. ________________________________________ The story emerged slowly. Twenty years earlier. Before meeting Meera. Before becoming the man everyone admired. Arvind and Rhea had been in a relationship. Serious. Committed. Then life intervened. Careers. Distance. Misunderstandings. The relationship ended. Shortly afterward Rhea discovered she was pregnant. She never told him. At first. Years later circumstances changed. The truth emerged. By then Arvind was married. Meera was pregnant. Lives had moved forward. No affair occurred. No romance resumed. Only responsibility. And guilt. A great deal of guilt. ________________________________________ “He wanted to tell you.” Rhea's voice trembled. “For years.” Meera felt numb. The notebook. The secrecy. The meetings. The phone calls. Suddenly everything looked different. Not better. Just different. ________________________________________ “Why didn't he?” The question emerged as a whisper. Rhea laughed sadly. “Because he was terrified.” “Of me?” “Yes.” The answer hurt unexpectedly. Because it sounded accurate. ________________________________________ For days Meera walked through life like a ghost. The revelation consumed her. Not because Arvind had betrayed her physically. Because he had hidden an entire human being. A daughter. A secret daughter. A young woman who shared his blood. And she had never known. ________________________________________ Then another complication emerged. The daughter herself. A twenty-one-year-old university student named Kavya. ________________________________________ Their first meeting was awkward. Painfully awkward. Neither knew what to say. What language existed for such circumstances? Hello. I'm the woman whose husband was your father. Hello. I'm the daughter he never publicly acknowledged. Nice weather. The absurdity almost made them laugh. ________________________________________ Yet something unexpected happened. Over time they began talking. Really talking. About Arvind. About mistakes. About families. About forgiveness. And gradually Meera's anger evolved. Not disappeared. Evolved. Into something more complicated. ________________________________________ Three months later she visited Sanjay again. This time without accusations. Without tears. Without obsession. They sat quietly drinking tea. Eventually he asked: “Did you get your answer?” Meera smiled faintly. “Yes.” “And?” She looked out the window. The city shimmered beneath evening lights. “I asked the wrong question.” Sanjay frowned. “What do you mean?” “For months I kept asking whether he slept with her.” “And?” “That wasn't the important thing.” ________________________________________ She thought about Arvind. His kindness. His cowardice. His generosity. His mistakes. All existing simultaneously. Human beings were inconveniently complex. Neither saints nor villains. Just collections of choices. Some admirable. Some regrettable. Some impossible to explain. ________________________________________ “He didn't have an affair.” She said quietly. “But he did keep secrets.” Sanjay nodded. “That sounds like most people.” “Yes.” A sad smile crossed her face. “It does.” ________________________________________ Later that evening she visited Arvind's grave. The cemetery was empty. The air cool. She stood silently for several minutes. Then laughed softly. Not because anything was funny. Because life was. In a strange way. For months she had imagined dramatic betrayals. Passionate affairs. Hidden romances. Scandalous lies. The truth proved both less sensational and more painful. Love wasn't the secret. Fear was. Fear of consequences. Fear of honesty. Fear of hurting people. And fear, she realized, often causes more damage than truth ever could. ________________________________________ As darkness settled around the cemetery, Meera placed fresh flowers beside the headstone. “You idiot.” She whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Yet somehow they felt lighter than before. Not because every wound had healed. Because uncertainty had. The question that haunted her for months finally had an answer. No. Her husband had not slept with Rhea. But the truth she discovered instead changed her life far more than any affair could have. And as she turned to leave, she realized something else. The most dangerous secrets are rarely the ones people suspect. They're the ones hidden behind ordinary smiles. The ones disguised as good intentions. The ones carried by decent people trying desperately to avoid difficult conversations. Those secrets don't explode. They wait. Patiently. For years. Until one day someone finally asks the right question.

Last Seen-1

Last Seen She willed herself not to check her phone. Again. The device lay on the table beside her laptop like a forbidden object. Every few minutes her eyes drifted toward it, and every few minutes she forced herself to look away. Three days. Three entire days. Three days since she had sent the message. Not a casual message. Not a meme. Not a work-related question. Not one of their usual playful conversations. It was a confession. A dangerous, terrifying confession. The kind that changes everything. The kind that risks friendship. The kind that can either begin a love story or end one forever. And now she was paying for it. Ananya grabbed her coffee mug. Empty. She didn't remember drinking it. Her attention had been consumed by exactly one thing. A man named Kabir. And his silence. The worst part wasn't that he hadn't replied. The worst part was that he was clearly alive. She had checked. Far too many times. His "last seen" status had become her personal form of torture. Last seen 11:03 PM. Last seen 8:14 AM. Online. Last seen 2 minutes ago. Every update felt personal. He had time to open the app. Time to talk to others. Time to read messages. Just not hers. Her stomach twisted. Perhaps he was shocked. Perhaps uncomfortable. Perhaps searching for the perfect response. Or perhaps... The thought she feared most. Perhaps he simply didn't feel the same way. The possibility hurt more than she expected. Because Kabir wasn't just another crush. They had known each other for four years. Four years of friendship. Late-night conversations. Shared jokes. Coffee breaks. Secrets. Trust. And somewhere along the way, friendship had quietly become something else. At least for her. Apparently not for him. Three days of silence seemed to answer everything. Her phone vibrated. Ananya nearly dropped her chair. Her pulse exploded. She grabbed the phone. Looked at the screen. And froze. Kabir. A message from Kabir. Finally. After three endless days. Her hands trembled. This was it. Acceptance. Rejection. Closure. Something. Anything. She opened the chat. The message contained only one sentence. "I found the room." Ananya stared. Once. Twice. Three times. The words remained unchanged. I found the room. That was it. No greeting. No mention of her confession. No explanation. Nothing. Just those four words. Her heart shifted from excitement to confusion. What room? She typed immediately. "What room?" The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then another message arrived. "The one from the photograph." A cold sensation crept into her stomach. "What photograph?" No response. Several seconds passed. Then another message. "You really don't remember?" Ananya frowned. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. "Kabir, what are you talking about?" Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Nothing. She called him. No answer. She called again. Still nothing. The silence felt different now. Not romantic. Not awkward. Unsettling. An hour later she sat staring at their conversation. She had gone through months of old messages. No mention of any room. No photograph. Nothing remotely similar. She began wondering whether he was playing a joke. But Kabir wasn't that kind of person. At 10:17 PM another message arrived. This time accompanied by an image. An old photograph. Faded. Yellowed. Damaged by time. Ananya frowned. The image showed three children standing outside a large house. Two boys. One girl. The girl stood in the middle. She looked about ten years old. Dark hair. Large eyes. A bright smile. Ananya's breath caught. The girl looked exactly like her. Not merely similar. Exactly. She zoomed in. Her pulse quickened. What was this? The photo looked ancient. At least twenty years old. Yet she had never seen it before. Another message appeared. "Now do you remember?" "No." The reply came instantly. "You should." Sleep became impossible. She spent half the night examining the photograph. Something about it bothered her. Not because the child resembled her. Because the image itself felt strangely familiar. Like a forgotten dream. A memory hiding behind fog. At 2:00 AM she finally noticed something. A signboard. Partially visible in the background. Most letters were obscured. Only one word remained readable. ASHOK. The name triggered something. A tiny spark inside her memory. A flash. A corridor. A staircase. A red door. Then nothing. The sensation vanished. Leaving only confusion. The following morning Kabir still wasn't answering calls. Messages delivered. Not read. Ananya became increasingly worried. Then she remembered something. Two years earlier Kabir had mentioned his grandfather's house. A property outside the city. An old estate he occasionally visited. She searched her memories carefully. The name. What was the name? Then she remembered. Ashok Villa. Her blood ran cold. The signboard in the photograph. ASHOK. Could it be the same place? Three hours later she was driving. Logic told her not to. Common sense objected. But curiosity had become stronger than caution. The address took her nearly ninety minutes from the city. Eventually the road narrowed. Trees thickened. Civilization faded. And then she saw it. A large old house hidden behind iron gates. Weathered. Silent. Ancient. A sign stood near the entrance. ASHOK VILLA. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. The gate stood partially open. Ananya stepped inside. The property appeared abandoned. Wild grass covered the garden. Dust coated the windows. The house seemed frozen in time. Yet someone had recently entered. Footprints marked the dirt path. She followed them. Toward the front door. Unlocked. The hinges groaned as she pushed it open. "Hello?" No answer. Silence. Heavy silence. The kind that seems to absorb sound. "Kabir?" Nothing. She entered. The interior smelled of dust and old wood. Sunlight filtered through broken curtains. Furniture sat beneath white sheets. Everything looked untouched for decades. Then she noticed a flashlight lying on a table. Recently used. Kabir was here. Or had been. She followed faint footprints deeper into the house. Through hallways. Past empty rooms. Toward a staircase. The moment she saw the staircase, her breath caught. A memory surfaced. Sharp. Sudden. Terrifying. She had been here before. Not recently. Long ago. As a child. The realization struck like lightning. Impossible. Yet undeniable. She knew the staircase. Knew the hallway. Knew the house. How? At the top floor she discovered an open door. Red. Exactly like the one from her fragmentary memory. The room beyond was small. Dusty. Forgotten. And in the center stood Kabir. He turned as she entered. Relief flooded his face. "You came." "What is happening?" His expression changed. The relief vanished. Now he looked afraid. "Close the door." The request unsettled her. "Kabir—" "Please." Reluctantly she closed it. The room became quiet. Too quiet. Then Kabir pointed toward a wall. Ananya looked. And froze. Hundreds of photographs covered the surface. Hundreds. Most were old. Very old. Children. Families. Birthday parties. School events. Vacations. And in nearly every image she appeared. Alongside Kabir. Her knees weakened. "What is this?" Kabir swallowed. "You really don't remember." "No." His face tightened. "You disappeared." The words felt absurd. "What?" "When we were children." His voice trembled. "You disappeared." Ananya stared. "Kabir, we've known each other for four years." "No." "What?" "We've known each other much longer." The room tilted. "This house belonged to my grandparents." He pointed toward the photographs. "We spent summers together here." Every sentence sounded impossible. Yet each image supported his claim. Picture after picture. Year after year. The same two children. Her and Kabir. Friends. Close friends. Maybe more. A lifetime erased. "I don't understand." His eyes darkened. "Neither do I." Then he showed her a newspaper clipping. Twenty years old. The headline made her stomach drop. MISSING GIRL FOUND AFTER FOUR DAYS. Below the headline sat a photograph. Her photograph. Younger. Frightened. Alive. The article described a ten-year-old child discovered wandering near a highway. Disoriented. Unable to remember the previous week. Doctors attributed the memory loss to trauma. The case gradually faded from public attention. Ananya sat down heavily. Because she remembered. Not the events. The aftermath. Hospital rooms. Concerned faces. Questions she couldn't answer. Fragments she had always assumed were dreams. "Why send those messages?" She whispered. Kabir looked toward the wall. "Because I found something." He moved aside. Revealing another photograph. This one hidden behind the others. A single image. A cellar door. Beneath it, handwritten words. THE ROOM. The same room mentioned in his message. "I found it yesterday." Kabir said. "Downstairs." Fear crept into her voice. "And?" His answer came slowly. "There are records." "What kind?" His eyes met hers. "The kind explaining why you forgot." Together they descended into the basement. The hidden room sat behind a false wall. Inside stood filing cabinets. Boxes. Documents. Old videotapes. The discovery felt surreal. As though they had stepped into someone else's nightmare. Kabir handed her a folder. She opened it. Read. Then wished she hadn't. The house had once been part of an experimental psychology project. Unofficial. Secretive. Illegal. Several children had been subjected to memory studies. Behavioral conditioning. Trauma-response research. Most records were incomplete. Many names redacted. But one name remained visible. Ananya Sharma. Her hands shook. "This isn't possible." "It is." Kabir's voice sounded hollow. "I verified everything." The room suddenly felt airless. All those missing memories. All those blank spaces. Not an accident. Not fate. Someone had erased them. Another folder contained photographs. Reports. Names. One name appeared repeatedly. Dr. Raghav Menon. Project Director. Status: Deceased. Ananya exhaled shakily. At least whoever had done this was gone. Then Kabir handed her one final document. Her blood froze. STATUS: UNKNOWN. The doctor wasn't dead. He had disappeared. Silence filled the room. The implications settled heavily between them. Someone had stolen part of her childhood. Someone had hidden the truth. Someone had escaped. And perhaps— Someone knew they had found the records. As if responding to the thought, a floorboard creaked above them. Both froze. The sound came again. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Someone else was inside the house. Kabir switched off the flashlight. Darkness swallowed the room. The footsteps continued. Closer. Closer. Then stopped directly above them. Ananya's pulse thundered. Neither moved. Neither breathed. The silence stretched endlessly. Then a voice echoed faintly through the house. Old. Male. Calm. "I wondered when you'd find it." Every muscle in Ananya's body turned to ice. Because despite twenty years of missing memories— somehow she recognized the voice. And suddenly fragments returned. A white coat. Bright lights. Fear. A smiling man saying everything would be fine. Dr. Menon. He wasn't dead. He wasn't missing. He was here. The confrontation lasted less than ten minutes. Police arrived because Kabir had anticipated trouble and alerted authorities earlier. The old man attempted escape. Failed. Years of secrets finally surfaced. The investigation that followed would occupy newspapers for months. Victims were identified. Records recovered. Crimes exposed. Justice, delayed by decades, finally arrived. Three months later Ananya sat beside a lake. Peaceful. Quiet. Healing. The world felt different. Not because all questions had been answered. Because some had. Kabir sat beside her. For a while neither spoke. Then he smiled. "You know." "What?" "Your confession." She groaned. "Don't." "I was trying to respond." "For three days?" "I got distracted by discovering a conspiracy." She laughed despite herself. Fair point. Then he became serious. "Ananya." She looked at him. The expression in his eyes was familiar. Comforting. Warm. Perhaps it always had been. Even before either of them remembered why. "I should answer properly." Her heart accelerated. "What answer?" "The one you've been waiting for." The wind rippled across the water. For a moment neither moved. Neither spoke. Then Kabir smiled. A real smile. The kind that reached his eyes. "I've loved you much longer than four years." Tears filled her eyes unexpectedly. Not because the answer surprised her. Because somewhere deep inside, beneath the recovered memories and forgotten years, part of her had always known. Some connections survive distance. Some survive time. And some survive even memory itself. She took his hand. The future remained uncertain. Life always was. But for the first time in a very long while, the unknown didn't frighten her. Because this time she wasn't facing it alone. We use cookies Cookies help this site function, measure usage, and support marketing. Manage your cookie preferences anytime. Learn more about our cookie policy.

HRISHIKESHA

HRISHIKESHA Sometime in 2016 The day was balmy, with all the predominant and frequented places of the City of Joy, choc-a-bloc with people. Teeming crowds consisting of people of all hues, shapes and sizes were packed like sardines into every possible place –Victoria Memorial, Howrah Bridge, Indian Museum, Dakshineshwar Temple, Kalighat, Science City, Marble Palace, Park Street, Nicco Park and Elliot Park. Infact, Elliot Park was one of her favourite hideouts with Madhav Deb. She was listening intently to Raag Malhar rendered by a maestro and his trainee at the prestigious ITC Sangeet Research Academy, blissfully unaware of the weather turning blustery. The attractive woman, endowed with a buxom body was still carrying a hangover. But that did deter her from spiking her cup of black coffee and a glass of orange juice too, using up almost three-quarters of the contents of the bottle of gin. This was her patent breakfast like any other day. On the odd day, when famished she gorged on some sandwiches and washed it down with the lethal stuff. As the charming lady had staggered in and was seated in the hall of music lovers, she grabbed eye balls, unsavoury remarks and sniggers in equal measure. There was a time when her star had been at its zenith. She had been the toast of the academy and accorded the prized seat right opposite the performer. Till a few months back, Mona was a virtuoso teacher of Hata Yoga who ran an acclaimed yoga institution patronised by the affluent and voguish personalities of the city apart from those who were serious about acquiring skills of yoga and others desirous of losing flab gained at all the wrong places. Meanwhile, her head swam as she felt feverish. The enchantress’s throat was parched and dry looking for succour as she was suffering from an acute bout of pharyngitis. The mellifluous alap, followed by taal and accompanied by the rhythmic beats of the percussion that had sounded harmonious to begin with, now virtually cannonaded her brains. She felt dizzy; her palms were sweaty and she felt exceedingly nauseas. Quite unheeding of the demands of decorum, she took a swig from the bottle lying in her pouch and followed it carelessly with a tablet of Erythromycin that had been prescribed by the doctor. If this wasn’t lethal enough, she quickly added an anti-depressant (prescribed for recurrent panic attacks) to bottle of gin and took a few sips. Soon the combination of the strains of Raag Malhar and the dangerous cocktail did their work. The wretched image of Susmita flooded her mind. Unable to bear the turmoil in her mind, she tottered towards the door. But before she reached there she collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath as she tenuously held on to vital prana for existence. She could faintly hear Raag Malhar reaching a crescendo and visualised a glimpse of her maker as her mind became blank. A little later she was wheeled into the ICCU of an estimable hospital. Many years ago Rishikesh, a bijou religious town casts a magnetic spell on the devout, tourists, stock individuals and seekers alike. And Monalisa Sengupta was no different. The town is located on the banks of the Ganges on a cliff overlooking the river. Quintessentially the place is the gateway to Garhwal Mountains and has earned the epithet of “Yoga Capital of the World.” The town derives its name from the word Hrishikesha, one of the names of Lord Vishnu and meaning the one who has mastered the senses. Since millennia, Rishikesh has been a singular part of the legendary “Kedarkhand”. Legends and folklore exhaustively narrate that Lord Rama performed penance and observed austerities at this holy place before vanquishing Ravana, the ten-headed demon king of Lanka. Lakshmana, younger brother of the scion of Ayodhya crossed the river Ganges in assistance of his older sibling’s mission using two jute ropes at the point where today the grandiose Lakshman Jhula stands aloft. Meanwhile the prepossessing woman Madhulika Sengupta delivered twins, Parth and Monalisa at Rishikesh, at her parental house, following a series of disputations with Major Dipankar Sengupta who was insistent that a confinement at the base hospital at Joshimath would have been more prudent. He served with valour in one of the mountain brigades. However, the writ of Parbhunath Sanyal, father-in-law of the man in fatigues and a celebrated yoga teacher of Rishikesh prevailed. “Dipu, given the tough regimen of your work it is well-nigh impossible for you to look after Madhulika and the babies.” Major Dipankar Sengupta who possessed a chiselled, battle hardened frame and had been decorated with gallantry awards for operations in Manipur and the Kashmir Valley, capitulated to decree of Parbhunath Sanyal, much to the chagrin of his parents. Parbhunath Sanyal who learnt the science of yoga, pranayama and meditation from Bihar School of Yoga of Ranchi set up an establishment at Rishikesh. The patriarch of the yoga establishment began his day by taking a dip in the holy Ganges, meditated for an hour and then performed an exacting 108 sets of Suryanamaskars unflinchingly every day. This signature routine was a bulwark against creeping old age, and blessed him with a physical and mental hardihood that would be difficult to find in even one much younger. The day was spent in imparting exacting esoteric, scientific, spiritual, and sublime yogic knowledge and techniques to the tutees of the academy. Come evening, as the crimson sun sank into the Ganges, the exalted Parbhunath Sanyal once again took a dip in the sanctified river and then performed another 108 sets of Suryanamaskars. He was canonized Maharishi by other yogis and swamis who populated the pristine town. The practice of yoga transported the yogi to ecstatic heights and made him cheery and blissful. His face always radiant and bore a beatific, especially prior to the evening aarti to Goddess Ganga on the banks of the distinguished river. As per townsfolk, the yogi through the practice of yoga, pranayama and meditation had conquered his senses, truly one who was Hrishikesha. Living on a frugal diet of fruits, nuts and sprouts, the Maharishi was well-known for his seraphic personality, ably supported by his wife Sugandha. Over the years Major Sengupta rose through the army hierarchy and to become a brigadier. His winsome wife Madhulika and the twins, Parth and Monalisa, had had the unique opportunity of staying in the deserts of Thar, the mountains of North-East, in God’s Own Country and overseas as well, as they accompanied the army officer in his varied postings. But Rishikesh held special significance in the heart of Monalisa. Every summer, the twins would land at the Yoga institute and spend quality time with the maternal grandparents much to the disapprobation of the Sengupta family, who were settled in Kolkata. Monalisa embraced the holy river, the tranquil and serene atmosphere of Rishikesh and began acquiring skills of yoga under the watchful guidance of Nannu, as the children called Parbhunath Sanyal. Maharishi to his devotees, he remained Nannu to the apple of his eye Monalisa. Parth was a reluctant learner of yoga and preferred mountain climbing and rafting instead. He was attached more to his grandmother than his grandfather and to the paternal grandparents more than the maternal ones. Brigadier Sengupta was now heading a mountain brigade in Arunachal. Madhulika stayed with her husband and the children were to be admitted in college. While Madhulika respected her in-laws, she was always swayed by loyalty to her father. She felt no man could match the towering persona of her Maharishi father. This had often caused turbulence in the couple’s marital life and also between her and Dipankar’s parents. Madhulika now toyed with the idea of her children being educated at Dehradun so that they could be in close proximity to her father. But the plan was torpedoed by her son Parth. “Ma! Enough of that religious place, the ash-smeared sadhus and the whole yogic drill!” “No way am I going to study at Dehradun. I have decided to join Presidency or Xavier’s. Mona is coming with me. Do not impose your ideas and regimentation on us. We’ve had enough of that,” was Parth’s rebellious response when his mother shared her thoughts on the matter. Parth was always a more rooted-in-the-present kind of a person and luxuriated in the outdoors, perhaps influenced by his macho father. While he loved Nannu, and respected him as Maharishi, Parth was not particularly swayed by religiosity or spiritualism. There was a showdown between members of the family, but Madhulika was surprisingly outnumbered 5 to 1. It was one of the rare occasions, where daughter Monalisa was in disagreement with the ukase of her mother. This stupefied Madhulika no end, who had been a 100% sure her daughter would side with her. But mothers possess a sixth-sense when it comes to their offspring. She figured out the purported reason. Monalisa was bewitched by Abhimanyu Chatterjee a polymath in the gang of Parth’s friend. The erudite personality was a genius in mathematics and with amazing speed solved the most complex quadratic equations even as Mona struggled. He was a charming personality, well-versed with Indian cultural heritage and western philosophy. With seamless ease the bluestocking, strapping youngster doffed several hats. He could rattle off Swami Vivekananda’s speech given at the World Congress of Religions in Chicago and strum the guitar. Equally, he was adept at discussing the nuances of film-making of wizards like Ray, Mrinal Sen and Ghatak. The left and right hemispheres of the brain of Abhimanyu Chatterjee were highly developed. But the cutting edge was his regimen of practising yoga. Whenever the Sengupta children were in Calcutta, Monalisa and Abhimanyu had several sessions of yoga. Monalisa thought she saw the same spark of the Maharishi in the multi-faceted personality of Abhimanyu. Somewhere from yoga to culture to mathematics, love blossomed between the two. Monalisa defied the decree of her mother and vetoed the proposal to study in Dehradun. The couple would be locked in passionate embrace at Nicco Park. Or take a boat ride on the Hooghly River and visit Dakshineshwar. The duo was enthusiastic theatre, music and movie buffs. One weekend Mona and Abhimanyu zipped of to Digha beach a popular sea resort, where they spent highly romantic and passionate moments as the winsome girl lost her virginity. Monalisa and Abhimanyu were determined to marry and live happily. The Sengupta family, barring Madhulika was joyous with the decision taken by two. Monalisa’s maternal grandparents did not share the delight. A prescient Maharishi upon learning of his granddaughter’s decision, mentioned to Sugandha, “Mona’s temperament and her association with the Yoga institute, even her deep interest in existentialism and yoga are antithetic to her stay at Calcutta. Rishikesh and Monalisa are inseparable. This match does not augur well for our granddaughter.” “Though she is still to become Hrishikesha and conquer her senses in totality,” the venerable Maharishi was to tell his daughter. Back in Calcutta, the twins were enrolled in St Xavier’s College and pursuing economics. Abhimanyu was senior to them by two years and in the final year of studying mathematics. What began as an ordinary infatuation and attraction began to bloom and mature into unalloyed love between Abhimanyu and his beloved Monalisa. The cerebral and donnish Abhimanyu helped out Monalisa in solving dandelion questions of mathematical economics. The two performed yoga together, began sharing intimate moments at the Elliot Park, frequented Park Street and found a new passion. They began frequenting ITC Sangeet Research Academy to listen to Hindustani music. The strains and octaves of the music transported them to a different zone. Abhimanyu was now a frequent visitor to the Sengupta household and was always warmly welcomed by Monalisa’s grandparents and Parth. Madhulika, whenever in town from Niausa in Arunachal Pradesh, openly expressed her disapproval. “This boy, Abhimanyu is too crafty for our innocent Mona. My father has portended that they ought not to meet,” would be the refrain of the distraught mother. But her apprehensions were parried by her in-laws. “What is wrong with Abhimanyu? He is diligent, a scholar, does yogic exercises, looks after your daughter – what more do you want?” Time flew in the City of Joy; soon a year had elapsed and the twins moved to second year. Abhimanyu joined Presidency College to obtain a Master’s degree in Mathematics. He made grandiose plans of obtaining an M Phil, to be followed by a doctoral thesis. The subject of the doctoral thesis was to develop a robust statistical model to analyse declining crop share holding of the marginal farmers in India, with special emphasis on West Bengal. The Sengupta family other than Madhulika had accepted Abhimanyu Chatterjee to be a family member and it was virtually agreed upon that Monalisa would be his bride. For Madhulika, Abhimanyu was too canny and worldly wise and the doctoral thesis was just a springboard for greener pastures. Double Whammy Just as everything seemed to be hunky-dory, the unexpected happened. Human life is brimful of vicissitudes and the landscape is populated with numerous peaks and valleys. Brigadier Dipankar Sengupta was felled by the bullets of ultras as he was in hot pursuit somewhere in the North East on a secret mission and Maharishi Parbhunath Sanyal, who had aged over the years startlingly, slipped into the Ganges as he was getting ready to perform the evening aarti and drowned in the river. The bloated body was traced by expert divers late in the night. Madhulika and her children were devastated by the turn of events. Madhulika and her twins’ presence was mandated at the army base and also at Rishikesh. Monalisa decided that she would represent her mother at Rishikesh and her brother Parth would accompany Madhulika to Niausa. The mother was numbed at the twin tragedies and inconsolable. The feisty girl also overruled her paternal grandfather and made it clear that the immersion of the ashes in the holy river Ganges of the decorated Brigadier would be at Rishikesh. The overwrought patriarch of the Sengupta family and his granddaughter had an acrimonious discussion on the subject but the will of the hysterical wife and the inconsolable daughter prevailed. As the forlorn Sanyals and Senguptas looked shattered and devastated the ashes of the father-in-law and son-in-law were immersed on a tranquil morning in the holy river of Ganga at Rishikesh. Abhimanyu Chatterjee was conspicuous by his absence; not present to comfort Monalisa as the twin tragedies engulfed the family. The perspicacious Maharishi and his donnish daughter were proved correct. While the Maharishi had several tutees, it was his fond desire that Mona supervise the affairs of the Yoga institute upon becoming an authentic Hrishikesha. This was well-known in the family circles. Thus the plucky Madhulika and spunky Monalisa decided to stay on at Rishikesh to oversee the affairs of the Yoga institute much to the surprise of the Sengupta family and Parth. Thus a young but determined girl opted to drop out of college and live with the two widows to administer the Yoga institute for some time. She did not specify the time frame. Though her mind and heart pined for Abhimanyu, she like others in the family was grieved at the singular distance maintained by him. An anguished Parth and his distressed grandparents went back to Calcutta while his numbed sister remained at Rishikesh. Abhimanyu Chatterjee was apparently grappling with numbers and had insulated himself totally from the tragic events which had overwhelmed Mona and her family. Once he felt secure, he re-opened channels with the Senguptas. While Parth remained non-committal, the patriarch of Sengupta family goaded Abhimanyu to rediscover Monalisa in his life. So it was that Abhimanyu decided to visit the Yoga institute at Rishikesh and meet up with Monalisa and reignite the flame besides learning some advanced techniques of yoga. Reigniting the Flame It was an early Sunday morning, the bells of the temples were chiming, the gargantuan Ganges was tranquil, early morning birds left to catch their prize, the sun was yet to rise and a pleasant breeze wafted across the yoga capital of the world. Rishikesh, named after the one who had conquered the senses was suffused with efficacious thoughts and still to awake. A tall, well-built man, walked carefully down the steps, to see an enchanting well-endowed woman neatly dressed in a sparkling white churidar-kurta, practising Surya Namaskar. The practitioner’s fluid movements looked much like a dancer on a yoga mat on the banks of the river. The tall man quietly set up his mat next to that of the lady and soon started his sets of Surya Namaskar. There seemed to be a competition building up between the two and the movements gained pace. Soon the first rays of the sun encompassed the pristine Himalayas and the space was glistening with primordial incandescence. The eyes of the two practitioners met and the bearded man stepped on to the other yoga mat and held the hands of the woman and planted a kiss on her cheeks and lips. She was astounded…but did not protest. Perhaps the woman in her felt deprived of the passionate kiss of Abhimanyu. As the crimson sun rose from the bosom of Himalayan range, she tore away from her beloved. “Where have you been all this while Abhimanyu, playing with a Rubik’s cube? Solving equations? In the moments of bereavement, I had only my mother and brother as ballast. No entreaties on your part can assuage my fragmented and unsettled mind.” Monalisa continued with her tirade against Abhimanyu, quite unmindful of a motley crowd of pilgrims, a few bare-bodied sadhus smeared with ash and a few Yoga institute inmates who had gathered around the two lovers. Abhimanyu remained passive and heard Monalisa as she gave vent to her frustration. While some onlookers seemed to enjoy the diatribe and squalling, some meditators and yoga practitioners were certainly disturbed by the relentless harangue. The shrieking by the lady seemed to have an impact on the calm river which virtually became virulent. Finally, Abhimanyu broke his silence and in a most impassive manner uttered, “I never mentioned to you, your brother or your family members that my father was afflicted with cancer and passed away a few days back. Over the last few years I was nursing him and can empathise with your pain as I too suffered in a similar manner.” Monalisa was shattered upon hearing this calamitous piece of news and had no option but to be swayed. “But Abhimanyu, why did you not share this with me… After all there was nothing to hide between us,” she cried. Over the next few days Abhimanyu and Mona once again discovered each other, shared their pain, agony and reminisced of old times. Monalisa was mentally devastated to the extent that she was willing to relive the Digha Beach moments … And during the act in the hotel where she stayed with Abhimanyu wondered whether her lover was in love with her or merely her body? The words of her mother that the guy was too canny were lurking in the alcoves of her mind. But she let go her emotions as she had an orgasm. Madhulika was not too pleased with the change in the attitude of her daughter. But there was little clarity in her thought process as the double whammy had enveloped her mind with darkness and tenebrosity. A recently widowed older woman could hardly provide succour to her equally widowed daughter. Abhimanyu Chatterjee had completed his M Phil in mathematics and had enrolled for doctoral studies, while Monalisa’s education in economics came to a grinding halt once she had shifted base to Rishikesh from Calcutta. Back in Calcutta, senior Sengupta took a momentous decision and decided to draw the lines of fate of his granddaughter. It was decided that during Durga Puja, Monalisa would marry Abhimanyu. Her mother and grandmother returned to Rishikesh to look after the Yoga institute. Madhulika extracted a promise from Abhimanyu that Mona would spend at least a month at Rishikesh, at the Yoga institute to ensure it ran smoothly. While Abhimanyu’s mother was not overwhelmed with the proposal, her son caved in to the request of his mother-in-law. The couple were decked up in bridal wear. As the conches were blown in the honour of the presiding deity Mother Durga, Abhimanyu and Monalisa were married. The couple luxuriated in Sikkim for their honeymoon. Mona was blessed with an army back ground and spiritual training under the tutelage of her grandfather. She was a unique combination of tradition, military discipline and yet a free thinker. Abhimanyu Chatterjee besides being a mathematician was a well-read and cultured person. His widowed mother and a younger sister stayed with him while the older one was married and settled in the US. Monalisa, though a down-to-earth person, was upmarket compared to the middle class Chatterjee family. And there-in lay the schism between the daughter-in-law and her new family members. Yet another bone of contention was Mona’s insistence of setting up a yoga centre and continuing her academic pursuits in economics which had been interrupted. However Abhimanyu supported his wife. But the word given by him to Madhulika regarding Mona’s visits to Rishikesh for a month led to frequent contretemps in the family. They were married for now four years and Monalisa despite her engagements of completing her education and running the Yoga institute was impregnated and gave birth to twins. They were named Saumitra and Piyush. The mother-in-law tried to use this as a ruse to decree that Monalisa would be confined to Calcutta. But the spirited woman did not budge and continued her forays. “Mona how is Abhimanyu? Is he treating you well? I am quite surprised that he permitted you visit Yoga institute for a month,” mused Madhulika. Little did Monalisa or Madhulika realise that Abhimanyu was quite pleased at the prospect of his wife being away from Calcutta. Once, Monalisa had to cut short her visit to Rishikesh as her grandfather was hospitalised on account of a kidney infection and was in a serious condition. She rushed to the hospital along with the children, only to see her grandfather on a ventilator. A frantic Monalisa enquired from Parth and her grandmother, “Where is Abhimanyu?” They had no answers. She made frantic attempts to trace her husband but in vain. Finally she learnt from a professor in the Mathematics department that her husband was in Darjeeling, with Durga, a fellow student. Durga was also pursuing a doctoral thesis at Presidency College. The two had developed a phenomenal relationship. And this was not the only affair her husband had had; in fact he was a lady’s man who had a roving eye. Even during his prolonged absence from Monalisa’s life he had developed illicit relationships. “Do not trust Abhimanyu, he is a canny fellow,” the words of her mother ringed in Monalisa’s mind. Her grandfather passed away and Monalisa was in a state of despair. She had forgiven Abhimanyu, but could not accept his cheating and sought legal separation. The courts had handed over the custody of the children to Monalisa. The enchanting princess moved her base to Rishikesh to be with her bedridden grandmother and her mother along with her children. The clock in Monalisa’s life had come to a standstill. She lost her father and maternal grandfather on the same day and a few years later her paternal grandfather. In these moments of bereavement she looked for a helping hand, which came to her support in the form of Abhimanyu. She and Abhimanyu had similar tastes and likings and she was a loyal wife. But Abhimanyu was not an unalloyed Hrishikesha. He was not in control of his senses and fell prey to carnal pleasures. Soon her mind was clouded by Sisyphean and antipathetic thoughts and she began drinking heavily, smoking and indulged in cannabis much to the infuriation of her mother. This tarnished the image of the Yoga institute which was established with such penance by her grandfather and was one of the epicentres of Rishikesh. Monalisa was admitted to a rehabilitation centre for treatment, where she made valiant attempts to combat the pestilence, suffering from repeated withdrawal symptoms. As she was staging a recovery the family was struck by yet another tragedy and had to suffer bereavement of her grandmother. The family members and inmates of the Yoga institute were present on the banks of Ganga as Parth was completing the final rituals. A hazy and dazed appearing Monalisa who was encompassed with demonic thoughts slipped into the River Ganges. Was it an attempted suicide or... an accidental slip remained a mystery, consigned to the depths of the blest river? As the body seemed to be floating away … a yoga instructor, Madhav Deb jumped into the river and rescued Monalisa from the impending disaster as the opprobrious gathering were a witness to the events. Madhav Deb had arrived a few months back from Kolkata. Calcutta was now Kolkata and a new regime had breached the red fortress. This masculine man had ingratiated himself to Madhulika. Perhaps being a Bengali helped in these matters. Over a few months Madhav Deb and Monalisa grew close. She and her children had experienced innumerable hardships. Once again in her life a person interested in yoga and reasonably similar tastes entered her life. But Madhav Deb had taken enormous care of Monalisa in the rehabilitation centre and it was decided that the two get married once Parth had verified the antecedents. Both were in their late thirties and unmarried. She had two children and a mother to look after. Fast Forward to 2020 The Yoga institute in Rishikesh was being looked after by Pandit Bharadwaj, an accomplished yoga instructor and an eloquent speaker. This was the day of reckoning. He had to pass on the mantle. There were several aspirants. There were qualified yoga practitioners and administrators. They numbered around 50 which also included Monalisa. Hush and sush had descended in the hall as a lady dressed in white had tiptoed in the room. She was extremely beguiling. Her name was Susmita. Monalisa who was sitting cross-legged and with her eyes closed recalled the footsteps. She got up and escorted Susmita to the section where forms of those who join the academy are filled up. Monalisa filled the form. Pandit Bharadwaj stood on the podium and announced that Monalisa would be the first woman head of the Yoga institute; thunderous applause and some sniggers could be heard. “This announcement would surprise many. I make her my successor, not because her grandfather once held this esteemed post, but because SHE HAS LEARNT THE ART OF ACCEPTANCE AND FORGIVENESS.” He summoned Monalisa towards him and whispered, “You were always brilliant, but were your own adversary as you burnt with passion and retribution. One of the foremost principles of Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra is “Agarigraha sthairye janmakathamta sambodhaha”(II Sutra, 39) that is “Being established in non-accumulation gives knowledge of how births happen.” “On the fateful day of 2016, you attempted to snuff out your life once you realised that Madhav was living with Susmita. This development made you into a mental wreck. But someone who practices yoga needs to be perfectly balanced and poised and you have reached that exalted state today,” added the learned one. “The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It’s our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows,” he quoted Brene Brown. “Rishikesh and the Yoga institute have found a yogini in Ma Monalisa Devi, as you have now conquered your senses and have become a true Hrishikesha as desired by your estimable grandfather. Only one who is truly Hrishikesha possesses the qualities to preside over the Yoga institute.