Session 5:

"Good night, Pratap."

I asked her for a good night voice note. Just her voice—soft, unthinking, unburdened.

She sent it. "Good night, Pratap."

Two words. My name. Nothing more.

I played it once. Then again. Then again.

The first few times, it was just a voice note. A passing moment sealed in sound. But the mind—it twists things if you let it. If you listen long enough, a sentence is no longer just a sentence. The way a song, played on repeat, stops being lyrics and turns into something else—something personal.

I wasn’t hearing "Good night, Pratap." anymore. I was hearing what she meant.

The way she lingered on Pratap—like she didn’t want to say it fast, like she wanted to hold my name in her mouth for just a second longer. The way her breath caught before the last syllable.

The way her voice dipped at the end.

Not "Good night, Pratap."

"I love you, Pratap."

I froze. The phone still warm in my palm.

Did she just—?

I played it again. The same words, but now, they weren’t the same.

"Good night, Pratap."

Her voice curled around my name, soft, lingering, like a confession disguised as a farewell.

I laughed. A sharp, quiet thing. Wasn’t this madness? To hear things that weren’t there?

But what if I wasn’t wrong?

What if, deep inside, buried under whatever restraint she lived with, she loved me? What if she wasn’t ready to say it yet, so it slipped through in small ways, in ways she thought I wouldn’t notice?

She wanted me to find it.

She wanted me to listen.

I sat up, my breathing too fast. The walls of my room felt closer than before. The light from my phone screen cut through the darkness, bright and unnatural. I stared at it, at her name on the screen. My fingers hovered over the call button.

I should ask her. I should tell her I heard it. That I knew.

But what if she denied it? What if she said I was wrong?

No. I wouldn’t ask. I would wait. I would listen again.

I pressed play.

"Good night, Pratap."

Her voice swam through my head, looping, changing. I pressed the speaker to my ear, letting the warmth seep into my skin.

It wasn’t just words anymore. It was a doorway. A secret she had left for me to find.

I needed to go deeper.

I replayed it at half speed.

Slower, softer. Her voice stretched, vowels curling around each other, the spaces between her words opening wide. And in those spaces, something else was hiding.

I turned the volume up.

Louder. Letting it fill the air, soak into the walls.

The room wasn’t empty anymore.

I whispered along with it.

"Good night, Pratap."

"I love you, Pratap."

It was real. I was sure now.

But then—something else. A sound. A shuffle. A faint breath before she stopped recording. Had I missed it before? Was there something in the silence?

I clenched the phone. Replayed the last second over and over. A soft exhale, a hesitation.

Was she waiting for me to reply?

Did she want me to say it back?

A slow, creeping panic crawled into my chest. My fingers clenched, nails digging into my palm.

I should have replied. I should have told her I knew. What if she was waiting for me, right now, staring at her screen, hoping I would understand?

I opened our chat.

Typing… Deleting… Typing…

No, not yet. I needed to be sure. I needed to listen again.

Play.

The voice note crackled through the speaker, and this time—this time, I heard something else.

Laughter.

Faint. Distant. But it was there.

I shot up from the bed. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.

She was laughing. At me.

Not love. Not confession.

Mockery.

I grabbed my phone, shaking, replaying it over and over. The laughter was there, wasn’t it? She had tricked me. She had let me believe—let me fall—

I staggered back, hitting the wall. My breath came in short gasps.

No. No, no, no. That wasn’t possible.

I pressed play. Again. And again.

"Good night, Pratap."

I gripped my hair. It was shifting. The voice note was changing. Or had it always been like this? Had I just convinced myself of something that was never there?

I pressed the phone to my ear, listening so hard my head throbbed.

Nothing made sense anymore.

I started laughing. Because what else was left? What else was there to do when the mind unravels, when love turns into a voice in the dark, whispering truths only you can hear?

I laughed and played it again.

And again.

And again.

---

"Do you still have that voice note?"

She didn’t look up when she asked. Didn’t flinch at the way my breath shook, at the way my hands twitched against the hospital sheet. Just kept scribbling in that small yellow notebook, her fingers curled around a pencil with bite marks along its body.

I watched the eraser brush against the page. Why a pencil? Why not a pen? A grown woman, afraid of making mistakes.

"Yes," I murmured. "I remember making a tattoo of the message frequency."

I pushed back the loose sleeve of these hospital clothes, revealing my left forearm. The ink stood out against my skin—sharp, precise lines tracing the rise and fall of her voice.

She reached out, pressing her fingertips to the tattoo, light enough that I barely felt it. "So you loved her."

I turned my head, my jaw tightening. "Don’t disrespect my love for her, Doctor. I still love her. Present tense."

A pause. A shift in the air.

"That’s another breakthrough, Mr. Pratap." Her voice was steady, unaffected. "Now we know we have to find the answer somewhere between when you started loving her and before your accident."

"Good luck with that, Doc," a voice said from the door. "She started loving him in class 6th."

I turned too fast. The light from the corridor burned my vision, a silhouette standing against it. A woman. Mid-forties, maybe. The voice was too soft, too careful. A voice wrapped in warmth.

My throat dried. My fingers curled into the bedsheet.

"Radha?" The name slipped out before I could stop it. My breath shook. "It can't be."

The silhouette shifted.

"I am Aruhi, Pratap."

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Slow, heavy ripples spreading outward.

"Mam, I told you not to talk to the patient without my approval," the doctor said. There was something in her voice—urgency, but not anger. Like she understood something I didn’t.

Like she knew what was breaking inside Aruhi’s chest.

The chair scraped against the floor as the doctor stood. "We’ll continue day after tomorrow."

She left. The door clicked shut.

The room was still.

I swallowed.

"Aruhi."

The name felt familiar in my mouth. I let it sit there, rolling against my tongue.

I think I know her.

Session 4:

I stared at the invitation on my desk, its gold-embossed letters gleaming mockingly under the desk lamp. A wedding. An elaborate affair, no doubt. The kind where everyone pretended to care, their laughter too loud, their smiles too wide. The kind of event where I always felt out of place.

My mother had insisted I attend. “It’s family,” she’d said, as if blood ties were reason enough to subject myself to a room full of judgmental stares and probing questions. But I didn’t go. I couldn’t.

Not because of the people I hated. I’d long learned to ignore their snide remarks and unsolicited advice. No, it was because of the one person who wouldn’t be there.

Her.

She wasn’t family. Not in the traditional sense. But she was more than that. She was the thread that tied my fragmented world together. Her voice, her laughter, the way she could turn the most mundane detail into a story worth hearing—it was her absence that made gatherings like these unbearable.

The morning after the wedding, she called.

“How was the function?” she asked, her voice soft, like a melody I hadn’t heard in years but still remembered every note of.

“I didn’t go,” I replied.

“Why not?”

“There were people I hate,” I said bluntly, then paused before adding, “and none I love.”

Her silence on the other end was heavy, filled with the kind of understanding that only she could offer.

“You could have gone anyway,” she said finally. “Not everyone there was a stranger.”

“No,” I said, my voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “But you weren’t there.”

Her sigh was barely audible, but I felt it. “You know I can’t always be everywhere you want me to be,” she said, her tone tinged with something I couldn’t place. Regret? Guilt?

“I know,” I murmured, the words more for myself than for her.

The conversation drifted into safer waters after that. She told me about her week—a new project, a book she’d started, the way the sunset painted her balcony in hues of orange and pink. I listened, letting her words fill the void, even as they deepened it.

When the call ended, I stared at the unopened invitation again. My mother had called me selfish for skipping the wedding, accused me of being too wrapped up in my own world. Maybe she was right. But what was the point of being there if the only person who made the noise bearable wasn’t?

I thought back to the psychologist’s office, to the questions she’d asked. Why do you isolate yourself? Why do you find it so hard to connect?

I didn’t have an answer then, and I didn’t have one now. All I knew was that her absence left a void that no crowded room could fill.

The truth was, I didn’t hate weddings. I hated being reminded of what I didn’t have.

And her? She made everything feel like home. But she wasn’t there. She was never there when it mattered most.

I folded the invitation neatly and placed it in a drawer, shutting it away along with the questions I didn’t want to answer.

The psychologist’s voice echoed in my mind: “You still can’t remember her face, can you?”

No, I couldn’t.

But I remembered her laugh. The way she said my name. The way her absence turned social gatherings into lonely affairs.

And maybe that was enough. Or maybe it wasn’t.

I didn’t know anymore.

Session 3:

I remember waking up groggily, the faint sound of the door unlocking pulling me from sleep. She was late, much later than usual. Her steps were soft, careful not to disturb me, but I was already sitting up, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes.

“Kitna kaam karvate hai yaar tumse ye log,” I teased, my voice still heavy with sleep. She chuckled, her tired eyes lighting up for a moment. I wrapped her in a tight hug, holding her as if my arms could absorb her exhaustion. “But I’m proud of you, you know that, right?”

She nodded, her face buried in my chest. I carried her to the bedroom, where she disappeared into the bathroom for a quick shower. Meanwhile, I busied myself in the kitchen, rolling out dough and heating the wok. The faint aroma of spices filled the air as I prepared dinner.

When she called out to me from the bedroom, I walked in, one hand holding the wok and the other smeared with dough.

“Cuddle time,” she declared, her arms open wide, a playful pout on her face.

“But I’m cooking,” I protested weakly.

She puffed her cheeks in mock annoyance, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Setting the wok aside, I gave in, wrapping my arms around her. She clung to my neck like a child, her legs wrapped around my waist.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered, carrying her back to the kitchen.

She giggled, planting soft kisses on my neck and cheeks as I resumed cooking. It was chaotic and endearing—her clinging to me while I managed to prepare dinner. By the time we sat down to eat, the exhaustion of her day seemed to have melted away.

After dinner, we danced slowly in the dim candlelight to the soft melody of 'Chura Liya Hai Tumne Jo Dil Ko', our movements unhurried, savoring the moment. As the song faded, I pretended to slip, falling to the floor dramatically.

“Drama mat karo,” she said, laughing as she helped me up.

But I surprised her, pulling out a ring I had hidden in my pocket. “Will you be my forever?” I asked, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

She snatched the ring from my hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I dare you to say those words to anyone else ever,” she teased, sticking out her tongue like a child.

She bolted toward the bedroom, and I chased after her, laughter filling the air. When I caught her, I kissed her deeply, whispering, “I love you.”

“I know, bakayaro,” she replied, calling me an idiot in Japanese.

Just as I leaned in to kiss her again, her phone buzzed—a call from the hospital. Some emergency. She apologized, guilt heavy in her voice, but I shook my head.

“You save lives,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “That’s a lot cooler than anything I could plan.” She smiled, and in that moment, I knew I’d do anything to see that smile again.

 While she was gone, I cleaned up the kitchen, did the dishes, and finished the household chores. She returned hours later, her steps slow, her body drained.

 “I saved them,” she said softly, collapsing into my arms. “You always do,” I replied, carrying her back to the bedroom. She took another warm bath while I prepared for my lecture the next day.

When I finally joined her in bed, she was curled up with a novel, her hair falling messily across her face. “You look tired,” I said, pressing her legs gently.

 “Don’t,” she protested, but I silenced her with a playful shove. “Let me be a good husband for once,” I teased. She laughed, her head sinking into the pillow as I continued.

I didn’t realize when I drifted off, my head resting on her legs because I woke up to the sound of my alarm. She was still asleep, her face serene. I kissed her forehead softly. “Good morning,” I whispered before heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

As we started our day, everything felt right—ordinary, yet extraordinary in its simplicity.

---

x

The psychologist’s voice brought me back to the present.

“You still can’t remember her face, can you?” she asked gently.

I shook my head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “No. I remember everything else—her laughter, her voice, the way she held me—but her face is a blur.”

She nodded, jotting something down. “You mentioned preparing for a lecture. Were you a teacher?”

“Yes,” I replied, my voice steadier now.

“That’s good. We now know you were a teacher. Or, more specifically, a lecturer?”

I nodded again. “Yes, I was a lecturer of Management. I remember that vividly.”

She smiled, closing her notebook. “We’ll continue day after tomorrow.”

I nodded once more. The session ended, and she left the room.

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.

Session 1:

“Hey, how’s the job going?” A WhatsApp notification popped up on my phone. It came from Arjun. It was not a “Hey, how are you?” or a “Hi, it’s been long.” It was a straight question. That is how friendship between two male friends is - straight to the point, with fewer words, and always able to pick up where we left off. I remember the last time we talked, we discussed arranging an offer letter for me. He has good connections, or I must say, good networking skills. I lack that entirely. He immediately offered to help, even if I only needed it for three months. “So what if my connections go bad? If I cannot use them for my brother, they are not worth having.” He sure did force the word “dispose.”

“Finding reasons to get fired, any suggestions?” I replied almost instantly. How free are you, huh? That must be the reaction of some people when we text back immediately. They do not understand that some texts are perhaps silly, but the person sending them may be important. And boy, did I reply with an unreplyable text, you can say. I am like this, throwing one conversation killer after another. It is not easy to converse with me. I am not rude, just an introvert, you can say. An introvert with amazing social skills, yet I hate to converse. Hate would be a strong word in another sense. Let us say I prefer silence more. I cherish silence more than speaking. Similarly, I do not like eating. Can you believe it? I do not like eating. I am not fat, I am not slim, I do not like the idea of eating.

“Try sleeping with the receptionist, it always works.” Damn, no wonder we are good friends. He knows how to reply to my weird conversation killers. I never had it in me to, you know, not reply. It is not my cup of tea. I had to reply to this. I cannot lose. It is becoming competitive now. I do not know why, but it has turned into a competition. My next reply had to be a damn conversation killer to maintain my self-righteous image.

“Yeah, if by receptionist you imply the work desk.” Ooh, no one can reply to that. As the winner says, eat dust. I killed the conversation, but yes, it was soon revived with the usual. “Damn, PJ, you still kill conversations. How’s life going, man?”. We had a normal conversation after that, you know, catching up.

It ended with “Take care of yourself” and some complementary but unnecessary bad words. We respected each other. I wonder how a small conversation with a friend from college can make your day. A day that was almost lost because you did not smile, but in the end, a smile is worth all the shit you went through. A smile is worth a good night’s sleep. A smile that you get after eating your favourite meal. I was having that. Man, I miss my college days.

“The dwellings of the past will come. That is what the past is. We cannot run from it. It is good that it is coming back to you in such detail. We are making progress here,” she said while nibbling on the rubber tip of her pencil for a moment and then back to scribbling some notes on her notepad. I was sitting there with my hands pulling on my now-grown beard.

"We will continue day after tomorrow", She said and left the room.