Pavitra had always believed that truth was enough. That if you were honest, if your intentions were pure, people would see that. Especially family. Especially the people who claimed to love you most.
But sometimes truth isn’t enough when people have already decided what they want to believe.
The Innocent Mistake
It started so innocently. Pavitra was managing the WhatsApp group for the community volunteer cleanup project when she saw a notification about her son Arjun’s friend, Vikram, who had helped with the last event. Without really thinking – just quickly trying to add helpful volunteers while managing multiple tasks – she accidentally added Vikram to the group chat.
Within minutes, Arjun was storming into the room, his face flushed with anger.
“Mom, what is wrong with you?” he said, his voice sharp and disrespectful. “Why are you adding my friends to random group chats? You’re making Vikram feel obligated to volunteer when he never asked for this. You’re crossing boundaries!”
Pavitra looked up from her phone in confusion. “Arjun, it was completely accidental. I was quickly adding people and …”
“That’s impossible,” he cut her off, his tone harsh in a way that made her heart sink. “You don’t accidentally add someone to a group. You had to search for his name, select it, and click add. You’re lying about this being an accident.”
“I can show you exactly how it happened,” Pavitra said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the familiar panic rising in her chest. “It was literally a matter of seconds; I was moving quickly through contacts and …”
“Stop lying to me!” His voice was cruel, cutting. “You did this deliberately and now you’re making up excuses. Just admit what you did!”
“Arjun, I’m sorry this happened,” Pavitra said, her voice breaking slightly. “It was completely an accident – it happened in a matter of seconds while I was managing the list. I’ll remove Vikram right now and let him know it was a mistake.”
But even her immediate apology and offer to fix the situation wasn’t enough. Arjun continued to glare at her with that look of disgust, as if she had committed some terrible crime instead of making an innocent mistake.
She found herself wondering – why was he making such a big deal out of this? Why was he speaking to her with such disrespect over something that could be so easily resolved? Was this just how this generation handled conflicts – with immediate accusations and refusal to accept explanations? Or was this something deeper, something about how he saw her, how he valued her feelings?
The questions swirled in her mind as she watched her son’s face, searching for any sign – some part of her son that could trust her, even a bit of willingness to give his mother the benefit of the doubt in that moment.
The Betrayal of Silence
What happened next shattered something inside Pavitra. Her husband, hearing the raised voices, came over and instead of asking for her side of the story or addressing Arjun’s disrespectful tone, immediately began trying to smooth things over.
“Arjun, calm down,” her husband said, but his next words cut deeper than his son’s accusations. “And Pavitra, maybe you should give the boys some space with their friendships. You know how sensitive these relationships can be at their age.”
The betrayal was complete. Not only was her husband not defending her against being called a liar by their own son, but he was also suggesting she was somehow in the wrong for accidentally adding a friend to a volunteer group.
This was no longer just about a group chat or volunteer list. When your own son calls you a liar and your husband sides with him instead of you, when they choose his comfort over your dignity, when they let him disrespect you in your own home – it becomes about everything that matters: respect, trust, and whether your feelings have any value in your own family.
Old Wounds, Fresh Pain
As Pavitra stood there, watching her husband smooth things over and her son avoid eye contact, she felt that familiar sensation – the walls closing in, the ground shifting beneath her feet. She had been here before. Different situation, same feeling of being utterly alone while surrounded by people who claimed to love her.
Years of similar moments came flooding back. Times when she had been misunderstood, when she had to defend her truth to deaf ears, when keeping the peace was more important than protecting her dignity. The accumulation of all those times when she had swallowed her hurt for the sake of family harmony.
Pavitra felt angry, upset and could not help crying and felt a panic. Her anxiety rose. Her voice rose and she began feeling out of control.
“I know what I did and why I did it,” she said angrily, her voice unsteady following the growing storm inside. “It was an accident that happened in seconds while I was managing the volunteer group. But if you’ve decided I’m a liar, nothing I say will change that.”
That day, Pavitra found herself eating emotionally, seeking comfort in food when comfort from family wasn’t there. She stayed away from them, spending time outside, trying to process the weight of feeling so alone in her own home.
The Loneliness of Being Right
Later that evening, after Arjun had stormed off to his room and the group chat issue had been “resolved” with apologies and Vikram being removed from the group, Pavitra sat alone in her kitchen. Her family had moved on as if nothing had happened. Her husband was watching TV and her son in his room.
But she couldn’t move on. Not from being called a liar when she had told the truth. Not from watching her family choose the path of least resistance instead of standing up for her. Not from the realization that in their eyes, her feelings mattered less than avoiding conflict.
She thought about all the times she had intervened when someone disrespected her family. How natural it felt to be a moral support for the people she loved, and how important it felt for her family to be heard, understood and be happy.
Why didn’t they feel that same instinct for her?
The Weight of Invisible Pain
The hardest part wasn’t even the accusation or the misunderstanding. It was Pavitra’s wondering – how could this happen? How could everyone just get over it and expect her to get over it too? How could they expect her to be okay and just be fine, to accept the disrespect without any apology, as if nothing had happened?
It was the way her pain became invisible the moment it became inconvenient.
Pavitra wondered if this was about a lack of empathy – the inability to put themselves in her shoes and truly understand what she was feeling. Could they see her pain and still choose the easier path? Was it about seeking quick comfort rather than going deeper into understanding what really happened? Was it about avoiding the emotional work of truly supporting each other through difficult moments?
Maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t care – maybe they just didn’t know how to handle the messiness of someone else’s pain when it felt easier to smooth things over and move on.
But she also realized something else: her truth didn’t need their validation to be real. Her worth didn’t depend on their recognition. And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply know your own heart, even when no one else seems to.
Moving Forward
That night, Pavitra wrote in her journal:
“Today I learned that some battles you fight alone, even when you’re surrounded by family. Today I learned that my truth belongs to me, whether others choose to see it or not. Today I learned that sometimes the people who should stand with you will choose comfort instead, and that doesn’t make you wrong – it just makes you strong.”
She didn’t know how to heal the hurt yet. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap between her need to be believed and their need to avoid conflict. But she knew she wouldn’t apologize for expecting basic respect from the people who claimed to love her.
She did realize deep within that the hurt she felt came from the expectations on how people need to be in her eyes. The moment she lets go of the expectations, she can be set free and there will be clarity, forgiveness and peace in her heart. She knows it is a matter of time when she will seek His help to let go of the expectation and be at peace. No one is responsible for her happiness except herself.
And maybe, just maybe, that understanding and insight is enough for now.
In a small orphanage at the edge of a busy city lived a little girl named Eva. Her dark brown curls framed her almond-colored face. While other children complained of boredom, Eva found magic in the ordinary – ants carrying crumbs in perfect lines, raindrops racing down windowpanes, dandelion seeds drifting on summer air.
Unlike the other children who felt the ache of being parentless, Eva carried a different truth in her heart. Years ago, when she was tiny and weeping because she had no parents, her teacher had knelt beside her.
“You are not an orphan, dear,” the teacher had said softly. “Your true Father and Mother live in your heart.”
Those words planted roots deep in Eva’s soul. She embraced them completely, with that pure, unquestioning faith that only children possess. Not once did doubt cloud her certainty. While other children dreamed of being chosen by new parents, Eva already knew she belonged to someone greater than any earthly parent could be.
Each night, Eva knelt beside her small bed, hands folded tight in prayer. She spoke not to some faraway god but to a Father she knew listened to every whispered word:
My Father, please help me be happy My Father, please show me the way towards You My Father, please help me find my dream My Father, please help me know Your Will for me My Father, be my guide in my heart
On the night before her seventh birthday, after Eva finished her prayer, Eva asked her Father.
Father, could I hear Your voice? Could I see You, just once?
This wasn’t her doubt speaking – it was a child’s heart longing to be closer to someone beloved.
She chose her most treasured dress for the occasion – a light blue sleeveless one with white ruffle frills that touched her knees. It had come in a donation box, but somehow it fit her perfectly, as if meant just for her. She smoothed the fabric with care before climbing into bed, certain that tonight, her birthday night, she would finally meet her Father face to face.
Chapter 2: The Forest’s Welcome
Birdsong woke her – not the usual morning chirps but something musical and intentional, like a birthday melody created just for her. Eva opened her eyes, not to peeling ceiling paint but to ancient trees dappled with golden sunlight.
Fear never touched her. Instead, she felt something like coming home after a long journey – as if the orphanage had been the dream and this forest her real home. The air filled her lungs differently here, each breath deep and sweet.
Eva understood immediately – this was extraordinary and more than a dream. This was an answer, an invitation. The feeling of love surrounding her in this place, the happiness bubbling up from somewhere deep inside – this was her Father’s presence. The forest itself spoke His love directly to her heart.
A blue butterfly landed lightly on her curls. A hummingbird buzzed close, carrying a tiny white flower in its beak, which it tucked gently into her hair. Eva giggled, delighted.
Eva sensing that the beauty around her was a language of love meant just for her, whispered:
“Thank you for inviting me, Father“
A family of deer emerged from between the trees, eyes gentle and knowing. The mother deer approached and nudged Eva’s hand with her velvety nose, then gestured with her head for the girl to follow. The fawn pranced around her excitedly, occasionally rushing back to touch noses with Eva before darting ahead again.
As they walked, Eva noticed how different this forest felt from the small park near the orphanage. The air was pure, each breath filling her with energy. The sky above showed patches of clearest blue, with clouds that seemed to hang low enough to touch, as if welcoming her presence.
In the distance, mountains stood like wise guardians, ancient and knowing. The trees along the path swayed gently, creating a refreshing breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers and old bark. And the flowers themselves – they seemed to turn toward her as she passed, their blossoms brightening, as if offering greeting.
“Everything is alive here“
Eva whispered to herself, understanding intuitively that in this place, everything was aware – conscious in ways she couldn’t fully comprehend but could certainly feel.
Chapter 3: The Garden of Wonder
As the deer family led Eva deeper into the woods, more animals began to appear. Rabbits peeked from behind ferns, squirrels paused on branches to watch her, and butterflies danced around her head.
The mother deer stopped in a patch of sunlight. She looked at Eva, then up at the trees. Eva followed her gaze.
At first, she saw only branches and leaves. But then she noticed how the leaves moved together, like they were talking to each other. The birds weren’t just flying – they were carrying messages from tree to tree.
The fawn nudged Eva’s hand and led her to a puddle of water. When she looked down, she saw not just her reflection but somehow the reflection of the entire forest. In that moment, something clicked in her heart.
“Oh,” Eva whispered. “It’s all connected.”
A bluebird landed on a nearby branch and began to sing. A rabbit thumped its foot in rhythm. Then the crickets joined in, and even the leaves seemed to rustle in time.
Eva didn’t know how, but she understood what they were telling her: Here, nothing is alone. Here, everything belongs. Here, even the smallest ant matters to the tallest tree.
She felt tears of happiness in her eyes. The animals weren’t showing her magic tricks – they were showing her the truth that had always been there, if only people had eyes to see it.
Her heart so full it could no longer contain itself, Eva began to sing. The words came to her as naturally as breathing:
Hidden treasures everywhere, In the earth and in the air. Now my eyes can truly see How we’re bound, eternally.
Father’s love flows through this place, Touching each with gentle grace. Tiny seed and mighty tree, All belong in harmony.
Thank you for this gift so rare, This secret world You chose to share. In my heart I make this vow: I’ll remember what I’ve found now.
When her song ended, the forest responded with a sudden chorus of bird calls, as if applauding. A shower of golden light filtered through the canopy above, touching her face with warmth like a loving hand.
The deer motioned with her head for Eva to follow again. Just ahead, sunlight poured into a clearing where an ancient oak spread its massive branches. Beneath it, an old man tended a garden of plants Eva had never seen before – flowers whose petals seemed to glow from within, medicinal plants whose spicy-sweet fragrances mingled and danced in the air around them. His home was a shelter crafted from interwoven branches and leaves, resembling a giant bird’s nest.
“The birds taught me how,” he would later explain to her with a smile. “They are the greatest architects of the forest.”
The old man looked up. His kind eyes showed no surprise at seeing a seven-year-old girl in a blue dress standing at the edge of his garden, accompanied by woodland creatures.
“Ah, Eva,” he said in a gentle voice. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Throughout the day, Eva experienced wonders beyond imagination. She drank nectar directly from flowers that bent toward her lips, tasted exotic fruits that grew nowhere in her known world, and helped the old man prepare a simple lunch of forest vegetables with lemon and creamy milk made from forest nuts that tasted divine.
“Why is there so much food?” she asked, watching animals come and go, each taking only what they needed.
“In this place,” the old man explained, “there is always enough. No being claims more than they require, and so no being ever lacks. The animals are not lesser than humans here – indeed, in many ways, they understand better how to live in harmony with creation.”
Chapter 4: Father’s Voice
As evening approached, the clouds above the clearing parted, and warm, golden light poured down like honey. Eva felt wrapped in something she couldn’t see but could certainly feel – love, pure and simple.
A voice spoke to her, not through her ears but straight to her heart:
“Few children ever find this place, Eva. You’ve come because your heart has always been open to love.”
Eva stood still, breathing in the golden light. She noticed it dancing around the edges of her blue dress.
“My sweet child,” the voice continued, warm as summer sunshine, “you look so pretty in your special dress. Did you wear it just for me?”
Eva nodded, her face breaking into a delighted smile.
“It’s my favorite,” she whispered. “I wanted to look nice when I met you.”
When the voice fell quiet, Eva gathered her courage. The question she’d wondered about for so long finally found its way out.
“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.
“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.
A feeling like a gentle smile surrounded her.
“People call me by many names. You can use any that feels right to you.”
Eva thought for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the ruffle on her dress. Looking up into the golden light, she asked,
“Can I call you my Father?”
The light glowed brighter, like a sunrise.
“I am your Father, Eva. I always have been.”
Tears filled her eyes, happy tears that rolled down her cheeks. For a long moment, she simply stood there, letting the words sink deep.
The light shifted, like someone kneeling down to be at her level.
“You’re wondering about going back, aren’t you?” the voice said gently. “About how to find your way when you return to the orphanage.”
Eva looked up in surprise.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I’m always with you, little one. I know you better than you know yourself.”
She nodded, suddenly shy.
“When I go back… how will I hear you talking to me like this?”
The light seemed to come closer, like a father embracing his child in his arms.
“My voice is quieter there, but it’s still the same voice,” her Father explained. “When you feel peace inside even when things are hard outside, that’s me speaking to you. When you know something is right deep in your heart, that’s me guiding you. Just stay open, like these flowers that always turn toward the sun.”
“But what if someone is mean to me?”
Eva asked, thinking of one of the older girls who sometimes pulled her hair.
“What if I need help and I can’t hear you?”
The light wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“I’m with you even then, Eva. Sometimes being brave means walking away. Sometimes it means finding someone who can help you. Love doesn’t mean letting others hurt you – it means finding the wisest way forward. When you’re not sure what to do, just get quiet inside and listen. I’ll always find a way to guide you.”
Eva looked at the light around her and smiled.
“Father,” she asked, “in my prayers I always ask to know Your will for me. What is it that You want me to do with my life?”
Her Father’s presence seemed to brighten around her.
“My Will for you, dear one, is simple: to love and be grateful. To see the world as you see it now, with everything connected. To do all things from your heart, whether they seem big or small. When you wash dishes, do it with love. When you help someone, do it with your whole heart. And always remember to be thankful – for the sunrise, for a kind word, for the air you breathe.”
The light gently touched her cheek, like a parent wiping away an unshed tear.
“I don’t need you to do any one specific thing, Eva. I only ask that you bring love and gratitude to everything you do. Your unique way of seeing beauty in simple things is already a gift to the world.”
Eva pondered this for a moment. Then, looking down at her small hands, she asked her next question.
“Father, I’m just a little girl,” she said. “What difference can I make in such a big world?”
“That doesn’t matter, beloved child. What matters is what you choose in each moment. Every choice creates ripples that spread farther than you’ll ever see.
The results of your choices aren’t yours to control. Once you’ve chosen with love, let go of what happens next. The outcome isn’t yours to keep – it was never yours.
A single kind word to someone hurting might save a life you’ll never meet. Standing for truth might spark courage in hearts unknown to you. The smallest act of love ripples outward endlessly, touching shores you’ll never visit.
This is peace – to act with love and then release all attachment to what comes of it. This is how even a little girl becomes light in a shadowed world.”
Eva felt something heavy lift from her shoulders. She didn’t have to fix everything – just do her small part with love.
Looking up into the golden light, she asked her final question, the one she’d wondered about most of all.
“How will I see you when I go back?”
The light grew softer, and her Father answered in words that seemed to sing:
I’m in the love that fills your heart, In happiness that makes you smile. I’m in your faith that never wavers, In your surrender, filled with trust.
When you share kindness with all beings, From tiniest ant to tallest tree, That’s when you see me most clearly – In love that flows abundantly.
Look for me in passing clouds, In birds that soar on gentle wing. I dwell in people all around you, In every plant and living thing.
I live within the smallest atom, While universes rest in me. I’m found in kindness and compassion, In all the goodness you can see.
I’m in your courage when life’s hard, In strength that helps you stand. I’m in the calm that finds your heart, When dark thoughts cloud your mind.
I flow within your very blood, child, And in each breath that gives you life. Open your heart to feel my presence – I’m always here, in joy and strife.
Eva closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. When she opened them again, she saw the forest differently – every leaf, every creature, every ray of sunlight now shimmered with her Father’s presence.
“I see you now,” she whispered, “everywhere.”
Chapter 5: The Inner Light
From the golden light descended a pendant with an emerald stone that seemed to hold the forest’s essence within its depths. A delicate chain formed itself around the stone and gently floated toward Eva, settling around her neck. The pendant came to rest against her heart, warm and pulsing with the same rhythm as her own heartbeat.
“As you asked in your prayers, my will for you is to experience your world with love and kindness, sharing creation’s beauty with all you meet. This pendant will remind you of what you’ve seen here – a secret knowledge to carry in your heart.”
The golden light gradually faded, leaving Eva standing in the clearing with the emerald pendant warm against her skin, glowing with an inner light that matched her heartbeat.
The old gardener approached, kneeling down to her level and placing his weathered hands gently on her shoulders. His eyes held the same loving warmth she’d felt in God’s presence.
“It is time to return, sweet heart,” he said softly, drawing her into a gentle hug that felt like a blessing.
When he released her, he motioned with a loving sweep of his arm toward the wolf pack waiting silently at the clearing’s edge.
“They will guide you safely home.”
The largest wolf, silver-furred with amber eyes, bowed its head low. Eva followed the wolves through the twilight forest, her heart full of wonders seen and wisdom given.
She woke the next morning in her small orphanage bed. For a moment, she thought it had all been a beautiful dream – until she felt something heavy and warm against her chest. Looking down, she found the emerald pendant, glowing with an inner light that only she could see.
Eva smiled, tucking the pendant beneath her dress. Its origin would remain her secret, but its message she would share through how she lived – with kindness, with wonder, and with a heart surrendered to a wisdom greater than her own.
The invitation came when I was already exhausted, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that makes even blinking feel like work. A group text: Dinner at Golden Dragon, 7PM. Don’t be late.
I thumbed back a quick response: “Can’t tonight. Deadlines”
The reply was immediate: “You’ve canceled three times. We’re staging an intervention. We’ll pick you up.”
Something about the message made my chest tighten. Not anxiety exactly – something older, more primal. A warning. But I dismissed it as social fatigue and sent back a thumbs-up emoji that felt like surrender.
The day had been endless. Client meetings where I nodded and smiled while my mind screamed for silence. A task list that kept multiplying like bacteria. By six, my eyes burned from staring at screens, and my shoulders had formed a permanent arch of tension.
“Just get through dinner,” I muttered to myself in the bathroom mirror. “Two hours max, then bed.”
The face that stared back looked like a poorly made copy of me – skin too pale, tired eyes, hair limp despite my attempts to revive it. I looked at myself for a few moments forcing a smile and touching my makeup.
Chapter 2: The Quiet Unravelling
Wind cut through my coat as I waited on the curb. When Liah’s car finally pulled up, I quickly hurried shivering, cold winds seeming to cut through my face.
“You look terrible,” she said as I slid into the backseat. Derek turned from the passenger seat, his smile faltering when he saw my face.
“Thanks,” I said. “Been working on this look all day.”
“We could take you home,” Liah offered, but there was reluctance in her voice.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
We crossed into the older part of town, where streets grew narrower, the sidewalks emptier. I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass and watched my breath create circles of fog.
Something moved in my peripheral vision – a figure standing motionless on a corner, facing our car as we passed. A woman in a red dress, her face a pale oval in the darkness. I turned to get a better look, but she was already behind us, swallowed by the dark shadows.
“We’re here,” Derek announced, gesturing toward a storefront with faded gold characters painted on a red sign. “Golden Dragon”. The paint was peeling at the edges, the dragon’s tail curling back on itself in an impossible loop.
“I thought this place closed years ago,” I said.
“Reopened last month,” Liah said, already stepping out. “Supposedly the food is amazing.”
The sidewalk felt unsteady beneath my feet, as if the concrete had turned to something less solid. A wave of nausea swept through me, brief but intense enough that I had to close my eyes.
“You okay?” Derek’s hand on my elbow, steadying me.
“Yeah, just…” I opened my eyes and saw her again. The woman in the red dress, now across the street, standing perfectly still beneath a flickering streetlight. Looking directly at me.
“Just dizzy for a second,” I finished, but when I looked back, the woman was gone.
Chapter 3: The Uncanny Gathering
The restaurant’s interior was dimmer than I expected, the overhead lights turned low, most of the illumination coming from red paper lanterns that cast more shadow than light. The air was thick with competing scents – ginger and garlic and something sweeter, almost cloying. Conversations hummed at a dozen tables, but there was something off about the rhythm, as if everyone were speaking on a slight delay at a deliberate pace.
“We’re meeting Trevor and Sarah,” Liah said, scanning the room. “There they are!”
As we wound through the tables, I felt the weight of multiple gazes. A middle-aged man paused with chopsticks halfway to his mouth, eyes following our progress. An elderly couple turned in unison to watch us pass, their smiles identical and fixed. A young woman in the corner stared openly, her head tilted at a curious angle.
I folded my arms tight across my chest, suddenly aware of my heartbeat – too fast, too loud.
“It’s nothing”, I told myself. “Just my social anxiety acting up.”
Our table was near the back, partially concealed by a wooden screen carved with intricate scenes – mountains, rivers, tiny figures engaged in activities I couldn’t quite make out.
Trevor and Sarah were already seated, cocktails half-finished in front of them. Hugs, hellos, the familiar dance of greetings. I went through the motions while scanning the room, trying to understand what felt so wrong.
“Hello Madeline!” Sarah waved a hand in front of my face. “You with us?”
“Sorry,” I forced a smile. “Long day.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Trevor said, pushing a menu toward me. “Food will help.”
The characters on the menu seemed to shift slightly as I tried to read them, as if reluctant to be pinned down to definite meaning. I blinked, and they settled.
“I’m not very hungry,” I said. “Maybe just some jasmine tea.”
Liah rolled her eyes. “You need to eat something. How about a good salad?” She placed her hands lovingly on mine with a smile. I smiled back and said “Yes”
The waitress materialized beside our table so suddenly that I was startled. She was older than I’d first thought – sixty at least, perhaps older – wearing a high-collared black dress that belonged to another era. Her hair was pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and eyes so dark they appeared pupil-less in the dim light.
“What can I get you?” she asked, her voice surprisingly melodic.
The others ordered enthusiastically – dumplings, Szechuan rice, noodles, something with black bean sauce. I stared at the waitress’s hands as she wrote, noticing how the tendons stood out beneath paper-thin skin, how her nails curved slightly too long, slightly too sharp. Her plastic smile revealed teeth that seemed too uniform, too white.
“And for you?” she asked, turning to me. Our eyes met, and a jolt of recognition shot through me, though I was certain we’d never met.
“I will have the garden salad and dressing on the side, please. And jasmine tea.” I replied.
As she walked away, I fought the urge to watch her go, certain that her movements would be too smooth, too gliding.
“Does anything seem off to you? About this place?”, I asked my friends.
Derek glanced around. “It’s a bit… offbeat, I guess.”
“Supposedly they serve good authentic food,” Trevor added, as if that explained the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
The conversation moved on – work complaints, diet experiments, dating disasters, movies no one had time to watch. I nodded at appropriate intervals, laughed when required, but remained mostly silent, sipping the scalding tea the waitress had delivered.
Across the restaurant, I spotted her again – not the waitress, but the woman from outside. She sat alone at a small table, a cup of tea before her, untouched. She wore a red dress with mandarin collar, hair pulled back in a style similar to the waitress’s. She stared directly at me, her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The smile felt lifeless, scary and deliberate without any heartfelt meaning.
I looked away, heart pounding. When I dared to look back seconds later, her table was empty.
The food arrived, steam rising in fragrant clouds. My friends dove in, passing plates, exclaiming over flavors. I watched their chopsticks move from plate to mouth, plate to mouth, the repetition almost hypnotic. The nausea returned, stronger this time, accompanied by a light-headedness that made the room seem to move in angles.
“Try this,” Derek insisted, placing something on my plate. I stared at it, unable to identify what it was supposed to be. The texture looked wrong – too glossy, almost pulsing.
I pushed the plate away. “Maybe just a little rice.”
The waitress appeared again, refilling my water without asking. “I hope you are enjoying everything”, she inquired, her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that felt invasive.
“Just tired,” I said, the explanation wearing thin even to my own ears.
“You should eat some more,” she said, her smile widening a fraction too far. The words felt empty.
As she spoke, I noticed the restaurant had grown quieter. Conversations at nearby tables had paused, heads turned slightly in our direction. The man who’d watched us enter now sat motionless, chopsticks still suspended, food forgotten. The elderly couple smiled identical smiles. The young woman in the corner tilted her head further, as if listening for something just beyond hearing.
All of them watching. All of them smiling.
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Bathroom,” I mumbled, already moving.
The restroom was at the back of the restaurant, down a narrow hallway lined with faded photographs – black and white family pictures. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting alternating moments of harsh clarity and pool-like shadow.
I pushed through the door. Inside, a single bulb illuminated a small space with two stalls and a sink beneath a mirror.
I ran cold water, splashed my face, trying to shock myself back to normalcy. When I looked up, water dripping from my chin, I saw her in the mirror – the woman from outside, from the empty table. Standing directly behind me.
I whirled around, heart slamming.
No one.
The stall doors stood open, revealing empty spaces. I was alone.
Turning back to the mirror, I gripped the edge of the sink, studying my reflection. For a moment – just a moment – my reflection seemed to move independently, the head tilting in curiosity while I stood frozen.
“Get it together,” I whispered, and the reflection’s lips moved in sync again.
When I returned to the table, the others were finishing their meal, plates nearly empty. Liah looked up with concern.
“You were gone a while.”
“Sorry,” I said, sliding back into my seat.
The waitress appeared beside me, making me jump again. She carried a small tray with five fortune cookies arranged in a perfect circle.
“No meal is complete without fortune,” she said, placing the tray in the center of the table.
The others reached eagerly, but I kept my hands in my lap. The waitress remained beside me, waiting, that strange smile still fixed on her face.
“Take one,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “It’s tradition.”
“Madeline, come on,” Sarah urged. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”
With reluctance, I reached for the last cookie on the tray. The moment my fingers touched it, the waitress’s smile widened.
“Good choice,” she said. “That one is specially for you, my dear.”
She walked away, and I stared at the cookie in my palm. It looked ordinary enough – golden-brown, slightly curved, with the characteristic cracked surface. Yet it felt heavier than it should, as if something more substantial than paper waited inside.
Around me, my friends cracked their cookies open, reading their fortunes with exaggerated voices.
“‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,'” Derek read, rolling his eyes. “Profound.”
“‘Your smile is a treasure to all who know you,'” Liah laughed. “At least mine’s personalized.”
“Your turn,” Trevor nodded toward my unopened cookie.
With a sense of inevitability, I broke the cookie in half. The paper inside was folded more elaborately than usual, origami-like in its precision. I unfolded it carefully, revealing elegant calligraphy rather than the expected machine print.
“You will soon see yourself clearly.”
Something cold settled in my stomach. I looked up, scanning the restaurant for the waitress, for the woman in red. Both were nowhere to be seen.
“What’s it say?” Sarah asked.
“Nothing interesting,” I folded the paper quickly, slipping it into my pocket. “Just the usual cryptic nonsense.”
Chapter 4: Shadow Pursuit
Outside, the night had grown colder, the wind sharper. The streets were deserted now, storefronts dark, the sidewalks gleaming with recent rain.
“Sure you don’t want a ride?” Liah asked as the others climbed into her car.
“I need the air,” I said. “It’s not far.”
“Text when you get home,” she insisted.
I nodded, already turning away, drawing my coat tighter. The cold felt cleansing after the closeness of the restaurant, the sharp air replacing the sweet-sour scents that had clung to my clothes, my hair.
As Liah’s taillights disappeared around a corner, I began walking, focusing on the rhythm of my steps, the sound of my breath. The nausea had subsided, replaced by exhaustion so complete it made my vision blur at the edges.
Home. Shower. Bed. The mantra carried me forward.
I was two blocks from my apartment when I realized I was being followed.
The footsteps behind me matched my pace exactly, creating an echo effect that had masked their presence until I paused at a crosswalk. Then I heard it – a second set of steps, halting when I halted.
I turned slowly, expecting to see the woman in red, the waitress with her too-wide smile.
No one.
The street stretched empty behind me, pools of lamplight illuminating vacant sidewalk. I peered into shadows between buildings, searched for movement, for watching eyes.
Nothing.
Imagination. Fatigue. Too many late nights, too much caffeine, too little real food.
I hurried the rest of the way home, fumbling with my keys at the entrance to my building, glancing repeatedly over my shoulder. Inside, the familiar lobby with bright lights and aging furniture felt like sanctuary. I leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, focusing on my breath as it carried me to the sixth floor.
Chapter 5: The Descent
My apartment welcomed me with silence and the faint scent of the morning’s coffee. I locked the door, checked it twice, then moved methodically through my evening routine – coat hung in the closet, shoes neatly arranged in the cabinet, bag in my closet. I filled fresh water in my electric kettle and turned it on and slipped into the shower.
The hot shower was salvation, steam enveloping me, water pressure working at the knots in my shoulders, my neck. I stood under the spray until my skin flushed pink, until the bathroom mirror fogged completely, obscuring my reflection.
Clean, warm, wrapped in my softest towel, I went through my skin routine. I slathered lavender oil on my skin. Wore my comfort pajamas, lighted a candle and sat on the couch. I leaned back, sitting silently.
My body felt heavy, as if gravity had increased its pull on me alone. Even my eyelids seemed weighted, requiring effort to keep open. Yet beneath the fatigue, something hummed – a strange energy, vibrating just below the threshold of perception.
“You will soon see yourself clearly”
The fortune replayed in my mind, the elegant script appearing against the darkness of my closed eyelids. What had seemed ominous now felt almost comforting, a promise rather than a threat.
I felt myself drifting, consciousness spiraling inward like water down a drain. Circles within circles, pulling me deeper. A curious sensation of both falling and watching myself fall, as if I were simultaneously the experience and the observer of the experience.
The vibration intensified, rising from subliminal to palpable. My body felt both impossibly heavy and curiously insubstantial, as if I might sink through the couch, through the floor, or simply dissipate into the air.
Something was happening. Something was changing.
With enormous effort, I opened my eyes.
And saw myself, still seated on the couch, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.
I stood – or rather, I experienced standing – moving away from the couch, from the body still occupying it.
There, on my couch, was someone in deep sleep, mouth slightly open, doing that weird snore-breathe thing that we all insist we never do.
Was it me?
I see myself from an out-of-body experience. Did I die? Is this an afterworld? As true as that sounds and feels, it does not. I am seeing myself sleeping.
And I am not alone in watching.
Chapter 6: The Fragmenting
I hover near the ceiling, weightless yet anchored by the sight below me. Somehow, I’ve become something else—a consciousness separate from my body. There I am – Madeline – asleep on the couch, vulnerable and unaware.
“No, not just asleep. Exposed.”
A strange detachment washes over me as I observe this body that has carried me through life. I’ve never truly seen myself this way – not in mirrors, not in photographs. Those were always filtered through my own perception, through the voice that has whispered critiques since childhood.
Now I see everything with unforgiving clarity.
Her thinning hair when her head tilts forward. The rounded shoulders curved from years hunched over keyboards and phones. The stomach that rises and falls with each breath, soft and unconstrained by daytime garments designed to flatten, to minimize, to hide the bubble of fat all around her body, her aging skin.
“Look at you,” I hear myself think, with disgust and embarrassment.
The thought comes with practiced ease, an old script I’ve performed thousands of times. But something is different now. I’m both the critic and, strangely, a witness to the criticism.
Below me, Madeline stirs. Her brow furrows slightly, breath catching. Her eyes dart rapidly beneath closed lids.
“Someone’s here,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. Her hand gropes blindly for her phone. “Someone’s watching.”
I drift closer, fascinated. Has she always sensed me? This other presence sharing her consciousness?
Her phone screen illuminates, casting a bright blue light across her face. The time reads 12:30 AM.
Madeline’s eyes open suddenly. She bolts upright, scanning the room with panicked intensity as if sensing a presence watching her.
For a moment, I think she’s addressing me. But her gaze is fixed on the darkest corner of the room.
I turn my attention there and see… something. A darkness with dimension. A presence more substantial than shadow yet less definite than form.
“We are not alone.”
“Who’s there?” Madeline demands, clutching her phone.
The shadow does not respond, does not move, yet somehow gives the impression of patient observation.
Has it always been there? Watching us both? The watcher of the watcher?
“I’m losing my mind,” Madeline whispers, and I’m unsure if she’s speaking to the empty room or to herself or to me. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
She stands, moving to the bathroom. I follow, drawn by an invisible tether. The darkness in the corner remains where it is, unmoving.
Madeline flicks on the harsh bathroom light, confronts her reflection in the mirror. I hover just behind her, expecting to see my translucent form reflected beside hers. But the mirror shows only Madeline, dark circles under her eyes.
Then – just for an instant – two reflections appear in the mirror. Madeline in the center. To her left, a woman in the red dress looking at Madeline smiling at her.
Madeline screams, stumbling backward. When we look again, the mirror shows only Madeline’s terrified face.
“What’s happening to me?” she gasps. She pops in two sleeping pills.
“It’s not real,” she repeats like a mantra. “It’s stress. It’s exhaustion. It’s the medication.”
But her eyes keep darting to the corners of the bathroom, searching for watchers.
I drift closer, wanting to communicate, to understand what’s happening. As I move toward Madeline, my attention is suddenly diverted…
I notice the woman in the red dress looking at me, smiling at me. Madeline cannot see her this time.
The fortune cookie message flashes in my mind: “You will soon see yourself clearly.”
But what self am I seeing? Which of us is real? The sleeping woman? The critical observer? Or something else entirely, watching from the shadows?
Madeline’s breathing slows as the second pill takes effect. Her eyes grow heavy. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs. “I’ll call Dr. Levine tomorrow. Something’s… wrong with me.” She walks towards her bedroom trying to sleep.
As she drifts back to sleep, slumped awkwardly on her bed with her knees drawn to her chest, I feel something on my back. Not pulling me toward Madeline, but away – as if something is trying to sever the connection between me and her.
The bathroom door swings open by itself. The light flickers. Something pulls me by force towards the bathroom. I am now in the bathroom.
In the mirror, the woman in the red dress appears again, alone this time.
She raises one finger to her lips in a shushing gesture, then points to wall behind me with a strange smile.
“We are not the first,” she mouths silently. “And we will not be the last.”
The mirror cracks suddenly, a spiderweb of fractures spreading from the center. In each fragment, a different face appears – all women, all with the same hollow eyes and desperate expressions.
I try to scream but have no voice. I try to wake Madeline and warn her but cannot touch her.
I’m suddenly pulled back to the bedroom, hovering weightlessly on the ceiling, looking down at Madeline. And there, in the corner of the ceiling, I see another observer. And another. And another.
All watching. All waiting for Madeline to wake up. The woman in the red dress standing beside the bed looking at Madeline, smiling strangely at her.
I look at the others like me who are watching Madeline, each one waiting for their chance to speak to Madeline once she is awake. They do not seem to care much about the woman in the red dress, or can they even see her?
But then I notice something even more disturbing. From each observer, smaller fragments are beginning to split off – miniature critics watching the critics, judging the judges. One whispers, “You’re not harsh enough with her.” Another protests, “Please be gentle on her. Share some love.” Another murmurs, “You let her sleep too peacefully but why?” Each fragment spawns another, and another, a fractal pattern of judgment multiplying endlessly.
The woman in red walks among these multiplying parts, touching some, whispering to others, her smile growing wider with each new fragment that forms.
The fortune cookie was right. I am seeing myself clearly for the first time. But, who is “I”?
I try to return to Madeline, to merge with her, to wake her but I cannot. Am I the only one that feels sorry for Madeline?
One of the shadow figures steps forward. When it speaks, its voice is familiar – the same voice that has criticized Madeline’s every move, every choice, every flaw. My voice.
“It is time,” the woman in the red dress talks to all the shadows. “She is ready.”
Ready for what, I don’t know. But as the shadows advance, I understand one terrible truth:
This has all happened before.
And it will all happen again.
The woman in the red dress now directly looks at me. I cannot breathe. It feels like I am being eliminated from her glance. I seem to suffocate. I have not felt anything like this before. I do not have a physical body but what is this feeling I feel?
Chapter 7: What Follows
Madeline jolts awake with a gasp, heart pounding. Sunlight streams through the living room blinds, casting striped shadows across her body. She’s on the couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
10:07 AM.
“God,” she mutters, rubbing her face. Her mouth is dry, head foggy. “What a nightmare.”
She tries to piece together what was real. The invitation to Golden Dragon had been real – the text messages from her friends asking her to join them. But she hadn’t gone. No, she remembers now: declining the invitation, walking home through the cold, collapsing on the couch fully dressed.
Everything else – the restaurant, the woman in red dress, the fortune cookie, the observers – all of it had been a dream. A vivid, terrifying dream that still clung to her like cobwebs.
“Stress dream,” she tells herself firmly. “Anxiety manifestation. Classic symbolism.”
The bathroom door is ajar, light off. She approaches it cautiously, pushes it open with one finger.
The mirror is intact, showing only her pale, frightened face.
But as she turns to leave, something catches her eye. A business card on the counter that wasn’t there before.
She picks it up, turns it over in her hand.
“Dr. Amelia Levine, Psychotherapist” “Specializing in dissociative disorders and trauma”
Madeline has never heard of Dr. Levine. Has never seen this card before. Has no idea where it came from.
Her phone chimes with a text notification. Unknown number.
“Did you sleep well, Madeline? You’re not alone anymore.”
She stares at the message, a chill running through her. Probably just spam, she tells herself, but how would a random spammer know her name? And the timing, so soon after her nightmare…
She moves to the window and pulls the blinds fully open, needing daylight, normality. On the street below, pedestrians move about their morning routines. A man walks his dog. A woman checks her watch.
And there, directly across the street, standing perfectly still beneath a tree…
A woman in a red dress with a mandarin collar, face a pale oval, looking directly up at Madeline’s window.
As their eyes meet, the woman’s lips curve into that same lifeless smile from the dream.
Madeline backs away from the window, heart hammering against her ribs. Something in the apartment feels different now. The air seems heavier, charged with an unfamiliar energy. The space behind her feels occupied, as if the empty rooms are no longer empty.
She turns slowly, scanning the room. Nothing visible, but she cannot deny the feeling that something feels off. Maybe she is still recovering from her nightmare?
“Hello,” she whispers.
Only silence answers, but it’s a silence that listens.
Somewhere above the Indian Ocean, Vaidehi reached for her journal, its pages filled with her dreams and reflections. At thirty-nine, she was finally going home – not just for a visit, but for good. With a smile, she began to write:
February 5, 2018
The morning light streams through the airplane window, and for the first time in nineteen years, I feel completely at peace. No more counting days until my next visit, no more hurried video calls trying to bridge the distance.
All these years, the short visits and the video calls showed me so little of their lives. I have felt heartache and unease every time I realized that they have become weaker, older. The grey in Appa’s hair, the slight tremor in Amma’s hands – changes I should have witnessed gradually, not in sudden snapshots. But that ends today. No more watching them through a screen, no more carefully worded answers meant not to worry me.
I find myself thinking about privilege lately – not just the kind that comes from education and bank accounts, but the rare gifts of having parents who dared to be different.
Despite the cultural pressure to have more children, especially a son, my parents chose to pour all their love into raising their daughter. While many girls were told to limit their dreams, my Appa believed education and one’s passion was one’s sacred right.
These nineteen years in America have taught me much about child psychology and education, but my deepest lessons came from home itself. I learned about community from watching Amma and other women making vathal and appalam together, sharing life’s burdens through simple acts of togetherness. I learned about service from Appa, who turned our modest home into an evening tuition center, believing that knowledge should be accessible to all.
Now it’s time to bring these lessons full circle. My immediate dream is to teach children to understand themselves better using the methods I have learned in America, and from my personal experiences. I want to create spaces where every child feels seen and heard. And perhaps someday, when the time is right, this could grow into something more – my own small school where these values and teaching methods could truly take root. But first, and most importantly, I want to be there for Amma and Appa. To return even a fraction of the care they’ve given me. For now, my heart feels content knowing by tomorrow, I’ll see Appa Amma and live with them for the rest of our lives in my childhood home.
With these final words, Vaidehi gently closed her journal and looked out at the clouds below. A mixture of emotions washed over her – peace at finally heading home for good, happiness at the thought of being with her parents, and yes, that flutter of anxiety about beginning anew. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, feeling her shoulders relax. ‘Everything is fine now’, she whispered to herself.
Her thoughts drifted to her spiritual journey, so different from the traditional path she was raised in. Growing up in the shadow of Sri Ranganathaswamy temple, she had loved the rituals, the festivals, the sense of community – but her own connection to the divine had always been more personal, quieter. She found God in the early morning silence, in acts of kindness, in the peace of meditation, in the joy of teaching. To her, she felt closest to God, the universal Father-Mother, the source of all creation, beyond the rituals and the boundaries of religion or tradition.
She had kept these thoughts mostly to herself, knowing her parents found such deep comfort in traditional practices. It wasn’t that she rejected their ways – she simply found her own path to the divine. Some differences, she had learned, could remain lovingly unspoken, wrapped in the deeper understanding that all paths lead to the same light.
Now, returning home, she felt a deep connection in the simplicity of her purpose – to live in her ancestral home, to care for her parents, to accompany them to the temple they loved, and to share love with the children just as her parents had done. She would help young children realize it is okay to dream differently and find their own path.
After several hours, the plane banked gently, and as the first glimpse of the Indian coastline appeared through the clouds, Vaidehi smiled with a certainty she hadn’t known in years.
Chapter 2 – Return to East Chithirai Street
The taxi wound through the narrow streets of Srirangam. The sounds of Tamil movie songs echoed through the speakers on the street corners, mixing with calls of busy street vendors. The taxi took a sharp left and passed the familiar government higher secondary school where children in blue and white uniforms still poured out of the gates just as they had in her time. A little further down, the St. Josephs convent school’s distinctive yellow walls came into view.
As the taxi turned onto East Chithirai street, memories flooded back – walking these routes with Amma to school, stopping at the corner for kulfi ice cream. As familiar landmarks passed by, Vaidehi’s mind wandered to the home awaiting her. In her mind’s eye, she could see their home’s distinctive red oxide floors (kaavi tharai), always cool even in harsh summers. The mutram, their central courtyard, collected rainwater in the monsoons and moon light in the Pournami nights.
She could almost smell the morning rituals of her childhood – the sharp freshness of camphor from Appa’s early prayers, the sweet incense from their small puja room, mixing with the earthy scent of wet floors as Amma drew her intricate kolams. Every morning, without fail, her mother would wash the front entrance of their home, a ritual as sacred as prayer itself. The kolam-making that followed was more than art – it was her mother’s daily offering to the universe. First, the careful sprinkling of water to clean the floors and settle the dust, then the rhythmic flow of rice flour between practiced fingers, creating patterns that welcomed prosperity while feeding tiny insects and ants. “When we honor the space, we live in,” Amma always said, “we honor all forms of life that share it with us.”
These memories washed over her as divine songs reverberated in the atmosphere – traditional nadhaswaram music floating from the temple. Flower vendors selling jasmine and marigold lined the streets. Vaidehi’s lips parted with a smile as she lowered her window, letting the familiar fragrances flood in. Just a few more turns and she would be home.
Vaidehi’s heart quickened as the taxi turned into the Agraharam – this ancient neighborhood that wrapped around Sri Ranganathaswamy temple like a protective garland. These narrow streets had witnessed centuries of life, from the times when the kings gifted this land to the temple Brahmin community.
“Stop here,” she called to the driver., her eyes immediately drawn to the intricate kolam outside their house. The traditional rice flour design was enhanced with pink, yellow, and green, creating a welcome message more eloquent than words.
Stepping out and wrestling with her two large suitcases, she noticed the familiar brass bucket with water and copper mug by the doorstep – the age-old reminder to wash the feet and hands before entering the home, signifying entering one’s home is by itself a sacred act. Before she could reach for the mug, a warm voice called out. “Vaidehi! Vandhacha?” (You’ve come?)
It was Malathi Mami from next door, her face lighting up with joy. Within moments, other neighbors emerged from their homes, drawn by the sound of her arrival. As she quickly washed her feet, remembering Amma’s words – “Our home is our temple, kanna. We enter it with pure hearts and clean feet.
“Amma! Appa!” she called out, and there they were – her parents appearing in their doorway, her mother’s eyes already brimming with tears. As Appa helped with her luggage, his hands trembling slightly, the reunion became a blur of tears and smiles, of Amma’s tight embraces and Appa’s trembling hands on her head blessing her.
Once the neighbor’s warm greetings subsided and her bags were settled inside her room, the family fell into their familiar evening routine. Yet, Vaidehi noticed the familiar sadness in her parent’s eyes when they thought she wasn’t looking. She recognized that look – the weight of unspoken concerns about their unmarried daughter.
Later, as Amma served filter coffee in the old brass tumblers, her hands lingered a moment too long while passing the cup. “You look thin, Kanna,” she said, her voice carrying years of carefully contained worry.
Vaidehi covered her mother’s hand with her own. “I’m fine, Amma. Really.” She meant it this time, unlike those first dark years after her divorce when ‘fine’ had been a shield against their worry. Five years of marriage to the man they had chosen – a marriage that had crumbled under the weight of betrayal and emotional abuse – had taught her that some kinds of loneliness were far worse than being alone.
“If only you had someone… a child, a companion…” Amma’s voice trailed off.
“Then there would have been three broken hearts instead of one,” Vaidehi replied gently. “Sometimes what seems like our biggest regret is actually our greatest blessing.”
She watched her father in his familiar spot by the window. She knew he carried his own burden of guilt about the marriage he had arranged. “Appa” she said softly, “You taught me to dream. To believe in myself. That’s what helped me survive, what helps me thrive now.”
“But after we’re gone…” Amma began.
“I have plans, Amma,” Vaidehi said, her voice stronger now. “Teaching… Maybe someday, when the time is right, I might even start my own small school. And yes, perhaps adoption too – giving a child the same love you both gave me. And.. maybe someone will come into my life naturally, organically. But this time, it will be on life’s terms, not society’s.”
In the small puja room, Anandan folded his hands before Lord Narayana’s picture. “Avar parthipaaru,” he whispered (He will take care of her). Tonight, these words carried not just worry, but also a father’s gradual acceptance of his daughter’s different path.
Later, Vaidehi found him alone in the mutram. “Appa, my meditation practice, my work – they give me peace. Real peace. Not the kind we pretend to have to make others comfortable.”
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “You were always different, Vaidehi. Stronger than we knew.” He smiled looking at Vaidehi, and gently touched her cheeks, assuring her that he was okay and trusted his daughter’s decision. The evening bells from the temple rang in the distance, as if affirming their quiet understanding.
After saying goodnight to her parents, Vaidehi settled into her childhood room. The familiar space felt both comforting and new, like everything else about this homecoming. She changed into her nightclothes and sat cross-legged on her bed, opening her journal – a practice she had maintained for years now. She picked up her pen and began to write:
February 6, 2018
First day back home. Strange how familiar everything feels, yet different. Seeing Amma and Appa at the doorstep today – I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed their faces until that moment.
Amma’s concerns about me being alone don’t trigger me anymore. A few years ago, I would have been defensive and angry. It’s remarkable how our experiences change us. I feel grateful to attend the therapy sessions to help me understand my anger, my emotions. I feel grateful to practice meditation that has helped me to distance myself from what I am experiencing. I can empathize with Amma now, I see her worry comes from love.
I was so different when I left this house. So rigid, so sure about everything. The divorce changed a lot in me. Taught me life isn’t simple, people aren’t either.
Seeing Malathi Mami today brought up old memories. The way they’d compare Vishnu with me – him being labeled “average,” while I was the “model student.” I remember feeling uncomfortable during those conversations but didn’t understand why then. I just smiled, being secretly proud. Now I wonder how Vishnu is doing. Did those constant comparisons affect him the way I see it affecting children I counsel? Those grades we obsessed over mean nothing in life’s bigger picture.
Being the “perfect student” didn’t prepare me for real life. Didn’t teach me how to handle betrayal or rebuild myself after my marriage ended. I had to learn that the hard way.
Working with traumatized children opened my eyes. I see now how I was affected too – that need to be perfect, to be the best. The anger I carried for not seeing the signs sooner in my marriage, for not having the courage to follow my gut initially.
It took a lot to make this decision to come back. I’m grateful for these years of working on myself. The journey hasn’t been easy, but it has transformed me. I want to pay forward the privileges I’ve had – loving parents, education, the opportunity to be independent and to be self-sufficient. The teaching position at Sri Vivekananda School feels right. I want to help children understand themselves better, something I wish someone had taught me, Vishnu, and many of my other friends.
I will continue to work on my book about mental health in education after I settle in.
For now, I am just glad to be home.
Vaidehi closed her journal and placed it on her desk. She spread the cotton blanket on her bed, wondering if jet lag would let her sleep.
Vaidehi’s mother walked into the room with a glass of hot milk. “Drink this, kanna,” she said. The familiar aroma of pepper, cardamom and turmeric with a hint of sugar brought back childhood memories. Every night without fail, Lakshmi would give her this sleep-inducing home remedy.
“You remembered, Amma.,” Vaidehi smiled, taking the glass.
“How can I forget? You couldn’t sleep without it.” Amma smoothed the blanket and sat by her bedside.
As Vaidehi sipped the comforting drink, she felt her body relaxing. The jet lag didn’t stand a chance against this familiar comfort.
‘Sleep well, kanna,’ Amma whispered after taking the glass from her, and closed the door softly behind her.
Vaidehi felt her eyes growing heavy, jet lag no match for the comforts of home.
Chapter 3: The Taste of Home
The first rays of sunlight filtered through the east window of Vaidehi’s childhood room. Vaidehi woke up to the sounds of the temple bells and morning prayers. The familiar rhythm of steel containers clinking announced the arrival of milk at their doorstep.
After her morning shower, Vaidehi found her mother in the kitchen, the brass filter coffee setup already in progress.
The morning ritual of filter coffee was sacred in their home. Even before sunrise, Amma would begin her ceremony – measuring fresh coffee powder (a precise blend of 80% coffee beans and 20% chicory that gave the decoction its distinct character) into the brass filter’s upper chamber. The slow drip of hot water through the coffee grounds extracted the rich coffee essence, which would become their morning brew.
As Amma handed Vaidehi the perfectly foamed coffee in the brass tumbler-davara, Vaidehi smiled in joy.
“I missed this coffee for so long now. Thanks, Amma.”
“American coffee never quite got it right, did it?” Amma asked with a knowing smile, watching Vaidehi take her first sip.
“Not even close, Amma.,” Vaidehi replied, savoring the perfect blend of bitter and sweet, the creamy texture of properly pulled coffee.
“Wait here,” Amma said, disappearing into the kitchen where the whistle of the pressure cooker meant breakfast is getting ready. The aroma of fresh idli batter being steamed filled the house.
“Lakshmi, did Vaidehi eat breakfast?” Appa called out from the puja room, having finished his morning prayers.
Minutes later, Amma appeared with a plate of pillowy soft idlis, accompanied by her special thenga chutney and a small bowl of idli podi mixed with gingelly oil. “Eat while it’s hot, kanna,” she said, watching with satisfaction as Vaidehi’s face lit up at the sight of her favorite breakfast.
“Wait till you see what I’ve made for lunch.,” Amma added with a smile. Appa chuckled, happily watching his daughter savor each bite. These simple moments, Vaidehi realized, were what she had missed most in America – the taste of love in home-cooked meals, the quiet joy in her parents’ eyes.
Mid-morning brought a surprise visitor – Raman Mama, her maternal uncle, who had always been more like a second father.
“Vaidehi, yepadi ma irukka?” he greeted her warmly, his face brightening with genuine pleasure at seeing his niece. As they caught up on family news and memories, the delicious aroma of Amma’s cooking drifted from the kitchen, promising a feast.
By lunchtime, the banana leaves were spread on the floor, a practice Vaidehi had sorely missed abroad. Amma had outdone herself – golden-brown medhu vadai, crispy appalam, creamy vendakka mor kozhambu and kothavaranga paruppu usuli seasoned just right. Then came the surprise that touched Vaidehi – pineapple rasam with ginger, made exactly as she had discussed with her mother months ago during one of their phone calls. Such a small detail, remembered and recreated with love. A bowl of spiced buttermilk and semiya payasam completed the elaborate meal.
“Amma, you didn’t have to make so many dishes,” Vaidehi protested weakly, even as she delighted in each taste.
“First day home,” Amma said simply. “Everything should be perfect.”
After Mama left, patting Vaidehi’s head with a blessing, the afternoon settled into its familiar rhythm. Appa retreated for his customary nap. Amma busied herself with her post-lunch routine, humming softly as she worked.
Vaidehi sat in the mutram, watching the afternoon light create patterns on the red oxide floor. The perfect time, she thought, to share her plans with her parents once they gathered for evening coffee.
Chapter 4: A Different Approach to Education
“I have some news,” Vaidehi said, looking at her parents.
“Sri Vivekananda School confirmed my position. I’ll be teaching social studies and creative periods, and they’ve agreed to let me be a counselor too.”
“That is wonderful ma.”, Appa said happily.
She paused, then added, “This actually aligns perfectly with the book I’m working on.”
“A book?” Amma’s eyes widened with interest.
“Yes, something I’ve been writing based on my experiences counseling children, my psychology studies, and what I’ve learned about teaching with empathy. It’s about how we can make education more than just academics – helping children understand themselves and others better.”
“Tell us more,” Appa encouraged, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, take how we teach social studies. Instead of just memorizing facts and dates, what if we helped children understand different perspectives? When we study World War II, beyond battles and dates, we explore human choices. Like Chiune Sugihara, the Japanese diplomat who defied orders to save Jewish refugees. What makes someone risk everything for strangers? These discussions help children think about courage, conscience, and doing what’s right.”
Appa nodded, listening intently. Amma, however, looked uncertain. “But the syllabus…”
“We’ll cover everything required, Amma. Just in a way that encourages understanding and empathy.”
“These are such complex topics for children,” she said, still hesitant.
“They grasp more than we think”, Vaidehi assured her.
“First, we give them the historical facts. Then they reflect – what would they think about, worry about, hope for in that situation? When we studied Nelson Mandela, one student wrote letters he might have written to his children from prison. Another wrote about being a prison guard whose views changed after meeting him. Their insights were remarkable.”
“Isn’t that too heavy for them?” Amma asked.
“We handle it sensitively, Amma. Take Oskar Schindler – a businessman who initially just wanted to profit from the war but ended up spending everything he had to save his Jewish workers. Students explore what makes someone change so fundamentally? When does conscience overcome self-interest?”
Appa, deep in thought, asked “And, you think this helps them understand better than just facts?”
“Yes, because they connect emotionally with the situation. When studying environmental issues, they might write from different viewpoints – a farmer watching his land turn barren, a factory worker whose family depends on that job, a child imagining the future they’ll inherit. They share these writings in class, listen to each other’s perspectives. They learn there’s rarely just one side to any story.”
“And they’re learning to express themselves too,” Appa nodded.
“Exactly. Some prefer to present their writings dramatically, others quietly read them. We respect each child’s way of sharing.”
“But kanna, how will you handle children’s personal struggles? These days, there’s so much pressure on them.”, Amma asked with concern.
“That’s where the counseling helps, Amma,” Vaidehi explained. “I worked with many children struggling silently.”
She continued after a pause, “Like this bright fourteen-year-old girl –always scored well, very responsible. Suddenly her grades started dropping. Teachers labeled her ‘distracted,’ parents were frustrated. But when I spoke to her, I realized she was having panic attacks before exams. The pressure to maintain her ‘perfect student’ image was crushing her.”
“In my counseling sessions, I helped her understand that grades don’t define her worth. Taught her simple breathing techniques, ways to handle anxiety. Most importantly, created a safe space where she could talk about her fears without judgment.”
“Tell us more, Vaidehi”, Appa asked.
“There was this twelve-year-old boy avoiding school, claiming stomach aches every morning. Classic anxiety symptoms. Turned out he was being excluded by his friend group. He felt completely alone. So, we worked on building empathy in the whole class. Started a buddy system, had group activities where everyone had to work together.”
Appa sighed, “These children today face so many pressures.”
“Yes, and sometimes they don’t need solutions right away. They just need someone to listen. Like the girl whose parents were divorcing – she didn’t need advice, she just needed space to process her feelings through art therapy. Or the boy who lost his grandmother – we created a memory book where he could write letters to her, share his grief safely.”
“I want them to understand that every person’s journey is unique. There is no single right way to grow, to learn, to be.”
“Meditation and self-reflection help a lot to create self-awareness. A minute of quiet reflection helps students to center themselves. Children can regulate emotions better when they practice self-awareness, by noticing where in the body they feel different emotions. Or having them write about a time they felt angry versus a time they felt peaceful. It’s about making them aware of their inner world.”
“Vaidehi, this is important work. We are so proud of you.”, Amma smiled with pride.
“It’s good and important to give back to the community. How wonderful it is you get to do this through your job!”, Appa beamed.
Vaidehi smiled. “You both have shown me the beauty of giving in your own quiet ways.”.
After a pause, Vaidehi added.
“Appa, I would like to start evening tutoring sessions when summer break begins, I need help finding a space. I plan to teach mathematics and social science.”
Appa face lit up. “I could help with the mathematics,” he offered. “These children need strong fundamentals.”
“The old library space might be perfect for this,” Amma suggested practically. “It’s close by, and many families who know your father used to teach there.”
“That’s wonderful, Amma.”, Vaidehi smiled.
“One step at a time,” she said softly, assuring herself.
A comfortable silence settled between them.
“Shall we go to the temple?” Vaidehi asked, rising from her seat. “It’s been so long since I walked there with both of you.”
“Let me just change into another sari,” Amma joyfully said, already heading to her room.
Appa folded his newspaper with a smile. “We missed going to the temple without you, Kanna. I am so happy you are home with us now.”
As they walked together through the familiar streets – Vaidehi in the middle, her parents on either side – the temple bells began their evening song. Tomorrow would bring new beginnings but tonight was about these precious moments – walking to the temple with her parents, just as they had done countless times before.
Once upon a time, in a distant realm, there was an enchanting forest. The forest, home to evergreen trees, birds of many kinds, animals, and insects, sang with beauty, happiness and mystery in its full splendor.
Tall and ancient sequoias, which had lived for thousands of years and stretched endlessly to the sky, were the eldest guardians of this forest. All the beings in the forest believed their emerald crowns could touch the heavens and sing praises of the Creator. These giants bore the wisdom of ages, having witnessed the first of many creations in the forest. Their massive trunks symbolized strength, their firm roots on Earth showed their humility. These humble giants knew every flower that bloomed, every bird that sang and understood all languages of the animals, insects and birds. All beings in the forest called them “the elders” and revered them with love and admiration.
Among these giant sequoias, Eirene was the forest’s eldest guardian. At over 4000 years old, Eirene stood tallest and wisest. On full moon nights, the whole forest gathered at her feet, where Eirene would sing songs of creation, of love, and of divine purpose.
On one such night, Eirene sang – her voice soft as rustling leaves, while all the beings listened with reverence and open hearts.
Bumble bees buzzing on golden daisies Butterflies hovering on delightful pansies Fireflies glittering in evening’s glow Dragonflies hovering in starlit snow Thank you, God, for your beautiful artistry
Zebra galloping swift and strong Deer leaping with graceful joy Monkeys swinging between trees in glee Majestic lions roaming wild and free Thank you, God, for your strength divine
Woodpeckers drumming on sturdy tree bark Owls hooting tales through moonlit dark Hummingbirds dancing with whirring wings Sparrows greeting morning as they sing Thank you, God, for this heavenly chime
Red and white roses in bloom, their passion unfold White jasmine’s intoxication, a treasure to behold Gardenia’s creamy petals whisper deep forest essence Lavender purple, calming peace in twilight presence Thank you, God, for each fragrant prayer
Nature’s symphony – wind, water, song Whispers of hidden stream that gently hum along Distant roar of waterfalls, reminding of a thunderous rain Cool breezes dancing to ease summer’s strain Thank you, God, for Earth’s eternal hymn
Listening to Eirene’s deep and soothing voice, Reya felt peace settle in his heart. Gratefully, he touched his chest with his wings, a tear dropping from his eyes. Majestic and watchful, he perched on Eirene’s ancient branches, his yellow beak shining like shimmering gold. His sharp yet gentle eyes gazed at his family nest, where his young chicks slept peacefully.
Reya had immense gratitude for the forest. In the shelter of Eirene’s roots lay the beginning of Reya’s story – an egg tossed by a mighty storm, found and protected by the entire forest. Eirene felt motherly towards this egg and whispered to her forest friends, who kept the precious egg warm and safe. When the chick hatched, Eirene named him Reya, and the forest became his first teacher.
The forest creatures became Reya’s family, each teaching him in their own way. The sparrows shared their joy of flight, the lion taught him courage in silence, and Eirene, with her ancient wisdom, became more than a teacher – she became the mother his heart needed.
As seasons passed and Reya watched his own chicks grow, a quiet sadness became to stir his heart. Each night, as the forest settled into darkness, questions about his past surfaced. Even surrounded by so much love, there was a gentle ache he couldn’t quite name – especially when he watched his little ones nestled close to their mother.
One day, Reya sat quietly on his branch, deep in thought.
Eirene noticed the sadness in Reya’s eyes and asked:
“What is in your mind, Reya?”
With his eyes lowered, Reya said:
“My heart overflows with gratitude for all I have received. You have been more than a guardian, Eirene – you and the forest have been the family I needed. You taught me not just how to live, but how to understand the Creator’s Love.”
Reya paused.
Eirene said gently,
“That is the Will of God. He wants you to be happy and ensures you get the help you need. We were just His instruments, doing what we were meant to do. Every forest creature who helped raise you was His way of holding you close. He speaks to us through the love we share. I am grateful to Him that you are grateful, my dear Reya. But tell me, what is troubling you?”
Reya looked away.
“I am grateful for everything, but lately my heart feels heavy. When I see my chicks with their mother, I can’t help but wonder about my own parents. There’s a darkness inside me I can’t shake, even though I know I should feel only gratitude. Please forgive me.”
“And, if it is in His Will that I must be happy, why does my heart still ache?” Reya asked softly.
Eirene looked at Reya with kindness as a gentle breeze stirred the air. She spoke softly,
“My dear Reya, what you’re feeling isn’t wrong. Missing your parents while being grateful for your present life – both can exist together. ”
She paused before continuing,
“The Creator gave us free will because love cannot be forced. Each challenge – each life facility – is an opportunity to choose love again. Your sadness isn’t a failure, Reya. It’s part of your journey home to Him.
Life gives us challenges – what I call life ‘facilities.’ Each difficulty is an invitation to grow closer to the Creator. Your sadness about your parents is one such ‘facility,’ a chance to deepen your understanding of true love.
My dear Reya, our Creator speaks to us from our hearts. Beneath every voice that guided you, behind every act of love from our forest family, there has always been one true Parent – our Creator. Listen to Him. When we surrender to His love, joy and peace follow.
As you meditate, you hear His voice more clearly, and you realize He is with you all the time and only we choose to move away from Him due to our own busyness and wants. The act of surrendering ourselves to Him and living each moment completely in the present brings us joy and peace. We act out His Will as we surrender to Him. It is a joy that needs to be experienced. Do not worry, Reya. I will pray to Him for your peace.”
Eireen smiled and closed her eyes for a moment in a heartfelt prayer. When she opened them, the sun was setting, painting the sky in blazing orange and soft pink. The birds chirped joyfully as they returned to their nests, bringing a sense of calm to the forest.
Eireen looked at Reya with gentle kindness and said,
“Reya, just touch your heart. Smile to your heart with the same happiness you feel when you see your chicks. Feel the gratitude. When you feel naturally at peace, close your eyes and meditate. Remember, our Creator has given us everything in this moment. Ask Him for faith, for trust. Pray to him wholeheartedly, Reya. He is always listening to you and helping you.”
Eirene closed her eyes and continued,
“Thoughts are like a web. The more we think, the more we become trapped, like a little fly. The only way out is to relax, smile and touch our Heart. Feel the Love. That Love will free you from your thoughts.”
Reya with tears in his eyes and a heart full of gratitude, said,
“Thank you Eirene. Thank you for listening to me. I feel much lighter. I will do as you say.”
With that, Reya closed his eyes and touched his heart with his wings and sat in deep silence.
Days passed, and Reya meditated each morning and evening. Slowly a gentle peace began to settle with him.
One morning, while flying far from his nest to gather food for his chicks, Reya felt something in his heart – a quiet but clear voice urging him to return home. Without hesitation, he turned back immediately.
As he approached the forest, he saw smoke rising above the trees. He flew towards the danger and discovered flames spreading through the forest. He found young birds trembling in their nests, unable to fly. Without a second thought, Reya began gathering them on his strong wings, carrying them to safety.
Flight after flight, he returned to the flames, rescuing as many as he could. The heat scorched his feathers, and his wings ached, but Reya kept going. He guided smaller creatures to shelter and refused to rest until every creature he could find was safe.
When the fire finally subsided, Reya sat quietly on Eirene’s branches. His body was tired, but his heart was light and content.
“How did you know to come back?”, asked a young sparrow that he had rescued.
Reya was silent for a moment before answering with deep gratitude,
“I heard a voice in my heart. It guided me to save our forest family. It was the voice of our Creator.”
Eirene, who had stood strong through the fire, spoke softly.
“You see, Reya, our Creator’s Love flows through our actions. Today, you were His instrument, just like when the forest creatures were His arms of protection for a lost egg.”
Reya looked at his wife and his sleeping chicks, safe in their nest. He understood now – his story wasn’t just about living but about living with purpose: to serve the Creator and extend love to others.
That night, Reya felt complete. His meditations have prepared him to trust the quiet voice of love within his heart. Reya was finally at peace, knowing his true Parents have been with him all along, residing in his heart.
As all the forest settled into a peaceful evening, Eirene sang in joy:
Praise to You, our Creator of Peace Praise to You, our Creator of Joy Praise to You, the most Powerful Praise to You, the Gentlest Praise to You, the True Source of Unconditional Love
Thank you for giving us all we need without us having to ask Thank you for being the voice in our hearts, guiding us to our True Home Thank you for forgiving us for our mistakes Thank you for healing us Thank you for loving us unconditionally
Praise to You, our Creator of Peace Praise to You, our Creator of Joy Praise to You, the most Powerful Praise to You, the Gentlest Praise to You, the True Source of Unconditional Love
The warm summer breeze caressed my face as I perched sideways on the front bar of my elder cousin Hari’s bicycle, giggling heartily with each turn of the wheel. Hari, in his late teens, pedaled confidently through the bustling streets of T.Nagar, his wavy hair swaying in the wind. With his chiseled face glowing in the bright sun, his sweet smile and mischievous eyes held a charm that seemed to make every passerby smile back.
Hari’s world was an extraordinary one, and during my summer breaks at my aunt’s house, I had the privilege to be a part of it. Those summers at my aunts were the happiest days of my childhood, free from judgement and filled with endless adventures. The neighborhood buzzed with life, and every evening, kids aged 5 to 25 spilled out of their homes, ready to play.
Hari was the heart of these escapades. He teased me endlessly, pampered me when I least expected it, and even made me play chess with his friends, who deliberately let me win. Though I didn’t understand it then, their lighthearted gestures were meant to cheer me up and make me feel included.
One of my favorite memories was riding on Hari’s bicycle as he expertly navigated the chaos of Mangesh Street. Auto rickshaws swerved through narrow spaces, pedestrians crossed the streets boldly and vehicles moving in their own instinctive patterns. My cousin navigated these streets like a seasoned professional, knowing exactly when to pause, speed up, or make those sharp turns. Every now and then, he mischievously threatened to throw me off the bicycle into a dirty pit.
As we rode, I enjoyed observing the people and their moods and made wonderful stories in my mind, one of my childhood hobbies. Each street was its own living story – the fruit vendor cutting guavas and mangoes into thin long strips became the warrior hero, the vegetable seller neatly arranging tomatoes into perfect pyramids became the spy, the shoe repairman on the corner of the road claiming his own space became the wise elder, and the children playing with marbles became the supporting cast. Even the animals played their part perfectly. The dignified cow near the temple stood like an ancient guardian, while the street dogs provided perfect comic relief to the daily street drama.
In my mind’s theatre, the street’s cast changed daily – today’s protagonist could be tomorrow’s antagonist, each passerby stepping into new roles in my ever-changing story.
While the streets offered their daily theater, our next destination promised a different kind of adventure. We made our first stop at the library.
This library held a special place in my heart. Each visit felt like finding yet another secret passage into an endless adventure. As we entered this quaint dark shop, the narrow wooden stairs and small floors weren’t just physical spaces – they were gateways to different worlds. Each floor held its own genre kingdom – adventures on one level, fairy tales on another, and so on. I found the musty-sweet aroma of the old books mixed with the scent of the wooden shelves both comforting and mysterious. One must literally crawl their way to the books. It felt like a luxury to be here, as a ticket to one of the adventures specially designed for an imagination-thirsty kid.
The store owner, an old man with a long beard, weary eyes, and a kind smiling face, always greeted me as “papa.” He tirelessly helped me find books I would love to read. The helper boy, not much older than me, moved like a quick squirrel among the narrow shelves, knowing exactly where each book lived.
My cousin parked his bicycle here and, after getting some books, we walked to the ice cream shop down the street, right at the intersection of two main roads. They also served fresh juices here. That shop still stands today serving their fresh juices and ice creams.
The ice cream shop was a single room that houses a long wooden bench. A big fan was running non-stop on one side of the wall. They had limited flavors of ice cream and always had my favorites – vanilla and butterscotch. Hari got himself a sugarcane juice, while I got my favorite butterscotch ice cream on a cone. With no place to sit, we stood outside the shop enjoying our treats. It was a race against time and heat, a game I played with the sun. I focused on the serious business of saving each golden drop before it met the floor, my tongue quick to catch any escape attempts. I felt victorious when I had my ice cream in a completely clean manner. My cousin found this hilarious and would often tease me about my efforts with his friends, but I simply didn’t bother.
Back at my aunt’s house, I settled into the sofa surrounded by the books I borrowed from the library. I was ready to read new stories, shaping my imagination further. Soon, the evening would call us out to join our friends – some older, some younger, all part of our colony’s extended family.
Looking back, those summers weren’t just a series of carefree adventures; they were a blessing in finding joy in the ordinary. Hari’s easy charm and mischievous confidence were infectious. He taught me how to embrace the chaos of the world with a smile and how to find joy in the simplest moments. Even now, when I think of Mangesh Street, I remember Hari’s innocent laughter echoing through time, reminding me of a childhood filled with freedom, imagination and love.
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