Session 2:

“Hare Krishna,” the words barely escaped her lips, soft and reverent, as she curled closer into my arms. It was not just a murmur—it was a melody, woven from the threads of her voice and the warmth of her presence. It mirrored the one I carried within me, as if our hearts had rehearsed this harmony for lifetimes. I held her tighter, feeling the weight of her words settle into the deepest corners of my soul. A tear, unbidden and heavy with gratitude, slid down my cheek, landing on hers—a silent offering to the moment we shared.

“Thank you, Krishna,” I whispered, the words more a prayer than a thought.

Her gaze lifted to meet mine, her eyes vast and luminous, like the sky catching the first light of dawn. There was something eternal in them—a reflection of the moon, of everything beautiful I’d ever longed to hold. When I kissed her cheek, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a vow. A vow whispered without words, that her presence alone made this fleeting life immeasurably whole.

That night unfolded in quiet contentment, a delicate balance between the mundane and the profound. After dinner—a meal I had painstakingly prepared with my clumsy hands, as I had so often since our marriage—we lingered in the comfort of each other’s company. She, a doctor with the weight of too many lives on her shoulders, had once again crumbled in my arms after a grueling shift. Her tears, soft and silent, spoke volumes of the day’s pain and her unyielding strength.

It was for moments like these that I learned to cook. Every cut, every stir, every plated meal was my small rebellion against the burdens that tried to weigh her down. I dreamed of seeing her smile, of waking her with breakfast in bed on lazy Sundays—those quiet, stolen mornings where nothing else mattered.

But that night, sleep refused to find me.

I tossed and turned, restless, clutching her close as though holding her would keep the creeping unease at bay. It was an irrational fear, really—that this life, so tender and full, might dissolve into nothingness, a cruel trick played by the universe. She stirred slightly in her sleep, her face tranquil, and I knew I couldn’t wake her. Gently, I slipped out of bed and walked to the balcony.

The seventh-floor balcony was our sanctuary. Enclosed by lush green plants and faintly illuminated by the moon, it had borne witness to our quiet tea parties and spontaneous camping nights. The swinging bed we’d added recently had become her favorite spot for stargazing. I lingered there, letting the cool night air quiet my mind. The stars looked down at me, their silent company as I settled on the couch.

And then, she found me.

Barefoot and drowsy, her silhouette appeared at the balcony door. She said nothing as she walked to me, laying herself across my chest as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Her warmth seeped into me, and when she kissed my forehead, I felt the ache of the night melt away.

“Thank you, Krishna,” she murmured, her voice a balm to my unsettled heart.

I kissed her lips in reply, the only words I could manage echoing hers. “Thank you, Krishna.”

She nestled closer, her breath evening out as she drifted back to sleep. I held her tighter than I’d ever held anyone. For the first time in days, sleep found me, her heartbeat the rhythm guiding me into dreams.

---

“Who was she?”

The question snapped me out of my reverie. The woman sitting across from me, a psychologist with steady eyes and a patient smile, watched me intently. “You didn’t mention her name. Who was she?”

Her face slipped from my mind like sand through fingers. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure it, but there was only the feeling—the profound happiness she had left in her wake. The memory was vivid, saturated with warmth, but her face remained a void.

“She was... someone,” I said, faltering. “Someone I loved deeply. I don’t remember her face, Doctor, but I remember how she made me feel. Her laughter, her kindness, her strength. I can still hear her voice.”

“Was she Radha?” the doctor asked gently, her voice careful.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her. But I remember… we had a daughter. Ours. Mine and hers.”

“And who was the mother of your daughter?”

The question brought a pang of despair I couldn’t name. “I don’t know. Why can’t I remember? Why does everything else feel so clear, yet her face remains a mystery?”

The doctor jotted something in her notes before speaking again. “It’s okay, Mr. Pratap. The fact that you recall this much is a good step forward. Let’s leave this for now. Maybe next time, we can explore more about your daughter—or another memory that comes to you.”

I sat there, clutching at the threads of the life I once lived, trying to pull them into something whole. The happiness, the pain, the love—they felt real, more real than the present I was trapped in.

“We will continue day after tomorrow." I nodded, though my chest felt heavy. The session ended, and she left the room.