It had been five agonizing days since Papa fell into a coma. And Mumma... she wasn't in a coma, yet she was utterly unresponsive, trapped somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.
I hadn't been able to swallow a single morsel of food during this ordeal, surviving only on juice. Even that was thanks to Rithika, who had practically forced me to drink it, her persistence a small anchor in my spiraling world.
As for Misha, my younger sister, she had locked herself away in a room, perhaps trying to create her own protective shell against this crushing reality.
When I asked Rithika about her, she said, "She ate some fruits this morning." Hearing that—the simple fact that my sister had managed to consume something—brought a wave of unexpected relief, calming the frantic pounding in my chest.
A short while later, a nurse approached us and quietly informed us that Mr. Raina, the hospital administrator, was asking for us to come to his cabin. Rithika and I walked to his office, our hands clasped together, drawing silent strength from one another.
We entered the spacious, yet strangely suffocating, cabin and found two other distinguished-looking people with Mr. Raina. Sensing our presence, Mr. Raina looked up from a file he was reviewing and gestured for us to sit.
As we settled onto the chairs, he began the introductions, his voice carrying an air of strained importance.
"Mr. Joshi," he said, indicating the two men beside him, "these two are quite literally the world's best doctors—specialists we flew in immediately."
"Okay, so—," I started to speak, ready to ask what this meant for Papa and Mumma, but before a single word could fully leave my mouth, the door burst open. A nurse, clearly distressed, rushed in, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Sir! Patient No. 128 is not able to breathe properly!"
The number 128 slammed into my consciousness. It was Mumma. Without a thought, I bolted, sprinting through the pristine, silent hallways toward the ICU. I could hear the rapid footsteps of the two specialist doctors rushing in behind me.
Outside Mumma's glass-walled room, I stood frozen, my face pressed against the cool pane, watching the frantic activity inside.
I turned to Rithika, whose eyes were wide with fear, and urgently asked her to inform everyone else who was waiting. She simply nodded, her hand already moving to her phone to make the calls.
A few minutes felt like an eternity. Suddenly, the entire family arrived, their faces etched with fear and confusion.
Misha was among them, her face terribly pale, the tears in her eyes long since dried up, leaving only raw sorrow.
"Bhai," she whispered, her voice shaking and frail, "Mum...ma, ko kya hua?"
(What happened to Mumma?)
I pulled her into a tight, desperate embrace, trying to shield her from the sight within the room, trying to project a certainty I didn't feel.
The hug was abruptly broken as the doctors emerged, carefully wheeling Mumma's stretcher out of the ICU.
They moved with a hurried gravity, heading directly for the Operation Theatre. The massive, cold metal doors swung shut behind them, sealing Mumma inside.
A moment later, the red light above the Operation Theatre door glowed up, a harsh, unblinking sentinel in the sterile corridor. It was a silent, terrifying signal.
Everyone stood clustered outside, a huddle of fear, hope, and exhaustion, their gazes fixed on that ominous red light, waiting, praying for the moment it would finally switch off.
After what felt like an eternity—a frozen stretch of time measured only by the unwavering glow of the red light—it finally switched off.
Everyone shot to their feet, a ragged wave of hope and fear, their eyes locked on the Operation Theatre doors. When the doors silently hissed open, the doctor emerged, his face grim, his shoulders slumped beneath the sterile blue scrubs.
For a moment, no one breathed. We simply stared at the doctor, silently begging for the news we desperately needed to hear.
"I am so sorry," the doctor finally spoke, his voice low and defeated, "but we could not save the patient."
The words hit me like a physical blow, shattering the last fragments of my control. My world dissolved into a blinding red haze. My anger instantly reached a terrifying peak, overwhelming my senses.
"How could you not save my mother!?" I screamed, the sound tearing out of my chest, raw and unrecognizable.
The doctor flinched back, but I barely registered it.
Misha let out a small, muffled gasp, but I was no longer in control of my own actions. My hand shot out, grabbing the doctor's collar in a tight, shaking grip.
I felt the crisp fabric bunching in my fist as I pulled him forward, my entire body glued to the floor by a fierce, unmovable despair.
"You said you were the best! You failed her!" I roared, tears of rage and sorrow blurring my vision.
Vihaan and Shivansh rushed forward, immediately trying to pull me away from the terrified man.
They grabbed my arms, tugging with all their might, their voices indistinct as they pleaded with me to let go. I resisted with a desperate, animal strength, fueled by the agonizing realization of loss.
They struggled for what felt like an age, their efforts finally overcoming my exhausted grip. I relinquished the doctor's collar, watching him stumble backward, adjusting his uniform, before he quickly retreated, likely shaken to his core.
The immense wave of frustration and fury that washed over me was suffocating. I couldn't breathe this air. I couldn't stand in this place that had just stolen my mother.
I needed to escape, to be free of their pitying stares and the unbearable weight of the truth.
Turning my back on the stunned faces of my family and the cold, unforgiving hospital corridor, I walked away. I left from there, fully consumed by my grief, needing only the stark, silent solitude to process the unendurable loss. I just wanted to be alone.
🦋
I drove aimlessly, the accelerator pressed hard, the miles blurring by in a desperate attempt to outrun the pain.
I needed to be somewhere private, somewhere I could finally scream without witnesses.
After driving for a grueling two full hours, I finally reached my sanctuary: the farmhouse.
Slamming the car door shut, I walked quickly across the overgrown lawn and inside. The moment I stepped over the threshold, the air was thick with the ghosts of happiness.
The house, normally a haven of warmth and life, now felt overwhelmingly quiet, each empty space amplifying the silence in my soul.
Every corner held a memory. I could almost hear the echo of my mother and father's loving, familiar bickering—Papa's booming laugh followed by Mumma's sharp, affectionate retort.
I remembered the first time Rithika had come here, how nervous she was, and how quickly Mumma and Papa had enveloped her in their unconditional warmth. Everything had been so nice.
My eyes drifted to the wall beside the dining table. It was a chaotic, beautiful collage—a visual timeline filled with mine and Misha's photos from every stage of our lives: gap-toothed childhood smiles, awkward teenage poses, college graduation pictures.
Each photograph was a tiny, sharp stab of the life we had lived, now irrevocably altered.
Beside the dining area was the door to Mumma and Papa's bedroom. I walked inside, the familiar scent of Mumma's perfume clinging faintly to the air.
It was a brutal confrontation with her absence. I moved through the room, looking at the cherished photos on their dresser, and the happy images began to twist.
My mind, unable to sustain the nostalgia, plunged back into the horrific reality of the present. I closed my eyes, and the terrifying image of the accident that had stolen everything flashed vividly behind my eyelids, the screech of tires, the mangled metal, the sudden, brutal silence.
I was utterly lost in these agonizing thoughts, replaying the tragedy, when I suddenly felt a gentle tapping on my shoulder.
I spun around, startled, to find Vihaan standing just inside the bedroom doorway. He must have followed me immediately, realizing I was in no state to be alone. His expression was heavy with sympathy, but his voice carried a firm, sobering tone.
"Karthik, you can't do this to yourself," he said gently, stepping closer. "If you let yourself break down like this, imagine Misha. She's barely holding on, and she needs you now more than ever. How much she wants your support."
The mention of my sister's name was like a dash of cold water. Misha's pale, heartbroken face instantly flashed into my mind. Vihaan was right. I was the eldest, the one who was supposed to be the anchor.
Misha... she had never been like this. Even during the darkest times in her life, she had always possessed a stubborn resilience.
My thoughts drifted back to the painful memory of when Misha and Vihaan's relationship broke up years ago. It had been messy, heartbreaking, and deeply traumatic for Misha.
I knew the full story of his breakup with Misha. And though it still hurt to admit it—because it involved my sister's deep pain—I understood why Vihaan had used those harsh, hurtful words that ultimately ended their relationship.
When I had first learned what he'd said to her, my protective older brother instincts had surged. I was so consumed by rage that I was ready to kill him.
I saw red, envisioning only the torment Misha had gone through. But then, he had reached out, desperate, and explained why it all happened. He laid bare his own desperate situation, his reasons, and his own quiet agony.
As he spoke, my anger slowly dissipated, replaced by a reluctant, heavy understanding. I realized the breakup wasn't born of malice, but out of a tragic convergence of circumstances.
I ultimately relaxed and understood Vihaan's situation—a painful choice made under immense pressure, one that hurt him almost as much as it hurt Misha.
This secret knowledge now felt like a heavy, solitary burden. Misha still thinks that no one knows about it—that only she and Vihaan hold the truth of that final, devastating confrontation.
But I do know. I know everything about that incident. I know the nuances, the silent battles Vihaan was fighting, and the true reason he had to push her away.
I keep this knowledge hidden, not only to protect Vihaan from her anger, but more importantly, to protect Misha from a truth I fear she isn't ready to face.
I let her believe the simpler, crueler version of the story because, for now, it's the only way she knows how to cope with that loss.
Even during that profound emotional collapse—a breakup that had devastated her—she didn't stop eating. She'd been sad, yes, but she hadn't lost her fundamental drive to sustain herself.
Yet now, in the face of this family tragedy, she was shutting down completely.
"She hasn't had a proper meal," I confessed, the despair returning to my voice. "She's barely consumed anything in these five days except for a few fruits Rithika managed to get her to eat this morning. I'm scared, Vihaan. Really scared."
He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, acknowledging my fear with a silent, heavy look. He knew, just as I did, that this crisis was shaking Misha to her very core.
_____________________________________
I watched Karthik bolt down the hospital corridor, a blur of raw, uncontrolled grief. I shouted his name—"Karthik!"—but I knew he couldn't hear me; he was consumed by his pain. He was running toward isolation, which was the last thing he needed.
Knowing I couldn't leave Misha, I turned immediately to Vihaan. "Please, Vihaan, follow him," I urged, my voice tight.
"He needs to scream somewhere. You or I, or maybe Misha, are the only people he'd listen to right now." It was a tough choice, but I knew Karthik wouldn't stay gone forever.
My priority had to be the fragile, silent figure left behind. I couldn't leave Misha in her current state, so I sent Vihaan to follow my Karthik. Vihaan nodded, understanding the urgency, and immediately took off in the direction Karthik had vanished.
I walked back slowly, my heart heavy, to where Misha was sitting. She hadn't moved. She was on the ground near the waiting area chairs, a portrait of utter devastation.
She sat with no discernible emotion on her face, her gaze fixed on some distant, invisible point. She looked like a dead person, terrifyingly vacant. Her eyes were dry; the tears were clearly not flowing, but I understood completely.
I could feel the immense, silent wave of grief she was suppressing. She desperately wanted someone to be with her, but she was too numb to ask.
She had been my best friend for eleven years; I knew her better than she knew herself.
I sat down gently beside her on the cold, unforgiving floor and reached out to hold her hand. "Misha," I whispered, keeping my tone soft and insistent, "you have to let it out. You have to express your emotions."
She finally turned her head, her voice barely a thread. "Rithu, Mumma can't leave me like this," she pleaded, the words catching in her throat. "She promised me that sh... she will not leave her Gudiya (doll/little girl)."
Seeing her so broken tore at my heart. I cherished Manisha Ma. She was never like those toxic mother-in-laws you read about, she always treated me exactly how she treated Misha, with boundless love and affection.
It felt brutally unfair that someone so good was taken.
While Misha was tearfully expressing each and every thought that ran through her mind, the others began to gather around us.
Noor, Saira, Rida, Akshara, and Ruhi—our entire group of friends—sat down with us two, creating a silent, protective semi-circle.
We all kept quiet and just listened, offering our presence as an anchor.
Across the room, the older generation was trying to maintain composure. Ashok Uncle, Abhay Uncle, and Appa were doing their best to console Anushka Aunty, Anika Aunty, and Amma (my mother).
Those four women—Manisha Ma, Anushka Aunty, Anika Aunty, and Amma—were like sisters, actually, more than sisters; they were a singular unit of love and support.
I recognized that Misha needed a physical outlet for her exhaustion. I moved closer to her, positioning myself firmly, and gently asked her to rest her head on my shoulder.
As she placed her head on my shoulder, a silent thought echoed through my mind, heavy with injustice: "What did Manisha Ma do to deserve this? Why is it always the good people?"
"Rithika, can we please go to ISKCON?" Misha's soft voice cut through my deep, mournful thoughts.
It was less of a question and more a plea for escape. "I can't sit here any longer," she whispered, her eyes mirroring the desperation in her request.
I understood instantly. This suffocating hospital environment, filled with sterile grief and the memory of that cruel red light, was unbearable. I simply nodded my agreement, knowing that only the quiet serenity of her temple could offer her any momentary peace.
I stood up and quickly walked toward Shivansh, who was speaking quietly with Ayaan. "Shiv, Misha needs to leave," I informed him quietly, "She wants to go to ISKCON."
He didn't need any further explanation. Shivansh immediately nodded, his face etched with concern, and quickly excused himself after a brief word with the elders about our destination. He headed out instantly to bring his car closer.
"Misha, chalo ," I said, offering her my hand.She stood up, but her legs instantly betrayed her. Her entire body, drained by five days of shock and zero nourishment, swayed precariously, and she was on the verge of collapsing.
(Misha, let's go)
I moved fast, catching her and stabilizing her with a firm grip around her arms.
A wave of helplessness washed over me. I knew with crushing certainty that I couldn't make anything go back to normal for her. The immense, final loss of her mother was a wound I couldn't heal.
My heart ached to pull her into a tight hug and whisper the comforting lie that everything would be okay, but the words died in my throat. All I could do was offer physical support.
I gently helped her walk the slow, difficult path toward Shivansh's car, guiding her every step. Shivansh was already waiting in the driver's seat.
I settled Misha into the back seat first, making sure she was comfortable and securely supported, before walking around and settling myself beside her.
Ruhi slipped into the front passenger seat, and soon, the rest of our close-knit group—Noor, Saira, Rida, and Akshara—were following behind us in Ayaan's car. It was a silent, protective convoy, taking Misha away from the source of her pain.
I watched her lean against the car window, her gaze blank, and knew the destination was vital. Misha is profoundly devoted to Krishna.
For her, the Krishn Mandir (temple) is more than just a place of worship, it's an emotional sanctuary. Whenever Misha feels overwhelmed, whether joyful or profoundly sad, she visits the temple.
She draws strength and gets peace from Krishna, believing deeply that in His presence, her heartache will be soothed and her spirit will find rest. Her faith was the one thing that hadn't abandoned her.
🦋
The drive was silent and tense, but finally, we reached the ISKCON Temple. To my immense relief, it was not heavily crowded. The usual lively bustle of the complex was muted, offering the solitude Misha desperately needed.
I stepped out of the car and immediately went to Misha's side. I gently held her hand, guiding her across the temple grounds. Her grip was weak, almost non-existent.
As we reached the main steps, she subtly freed her hand from mine, a silent gesture that signaled she needed to face the deity alone. She walked forward with a strange, heavy determination.
Behind us, Saira, Noor, Ruhi, Akshara, Ayaan, and Shivansh followed without uttering a single word.
They were a silent guard of honor. They understood the gravity of the situation perfectly, respecting Misha's need for this deeply private, spiritual confrontation.
We reached the inner sanctum, standing before the resplendent, serene idol of Lord Krishna. In that sacred, peaceful space, Misha's tightly controlled facade finally fractured. She broke down into wrenching, unstoppable tears.
She was completely shattered, both from the outside and the inside. Her hair was disheveled from the frantic drive and the earlier struggle at the hospital. Her face was frighteningly pale, like the white marble wall behind her, and deep dark circles shadowed her eyes, a testament to five sleepless nights.
Misha walked right up to the altar. Her voice, choked with sobs, was loud enough to echo faintly in the stillness. "Why, Krishna? Why can't you see me happy?" she cried out, tears streaming down her face.
Her raw, accusing tone was heartbreaking. "Why did you do this? I was finally managing to climb out of the pain caused by Veer, and now this? Why, why, why?"
Her legs gave out beneath the force of her despair. She collapsed onto the cool, polished ground in a heap of pure, unadulterated grief.
The main mandir was completely empty. I didn't know why—perhaps the timing was unusual—but I was profoundly thankful for the privacy. It allowed Misha the freedom to shatter without judgment.
I quietly moved to a corner with the others. We didn't approach her, choosing instead to look at Misha from a respectful distance, offering silent support. It was a chillingly familiar sight.
I had last seen her this utterly defeated when Vihaan left her all those years ago. Now, the devastation was multiplied by an irreparable loss.
A single, burning tear rolled down my cheek. Misha was more than just a best friend, she was my everything.
My sister, my confidante, my oldest, dearest connection outside of family. Seeing her shattered like this felt like a physical blow, and it wouldn't let me feel peace until she found some measure of her own.
I couldn't bear to watch her suffer alone any longer. Breaking away from the group, I rushed forward, dropping to the cold floor beside Misha and pulling her into a tight, desperate hug. I buried my face in her hair as she clung to me, her sobs racking both our bodies.
In that quiet, sacred space, a bittersweet memory surfaced. I still vividly remembered the first time we both came to ISKCON.
We had been so carefree then, so happy, laughing at some silly joke, our hearts light with excitement.
And now, here we were again, the two of us huddled on the temple floor, but this time sadness had completely taken over us.
Misha pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine for an explanation that neither of us had. "Rithika, why isn't He answering?" she choked out, looking past me at the beautiful, indifferent idol of Krishna. "Why does He want everyone to leave me?" she finished, the question a raw accusation aimed at fate itself.
I held her tighter. I didn't have any answers for her questions. There were no platitudes, no comforting spiritual truths that could lessen the agony of losing a mother. We simply clung to each other, comforting ourselves in the shared, silent acknowledgement of our pain.
As we sat there, enveloped in our grief, a sudden, jarring sound sliced through the silence. Shivansh's phone started ringing loudly from where he stood with the others.
Misha and I turned our tear-streaked faces toward him, a unified expression of worry and fatigue. He glanced at the screen. "It's Papa," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he quickly answered the call.
We watched, terrified, as Shivansh's expression shifted from concern to bewildered urgency. After listening intently for only a minute, he ended the call, his eyes wide as he looked at the group.
"Um, everyone, we have to go back to the hospital, right now," he announced, his voice tight. "I don't know exactly what happened, but Papa insisted. He said we have to go to the hospital immediately."
The mention of the hospital—the place of death and dread—sent a fresh jolt of fear through us. There was no question, no argument, the urgent tone in Shivansh's voice demanded obedience.
I helped Misha stand up. With one last glance at the beautiful, silent deity, we turned and left the mandir, hurrying back toward the uncertainty and anxiety we thought we had just escaped.
The entire trip back to the hospital was consumed by a suffocating silence. The car cabin was thick with dread, replacing the raw grief of the temple with a fresh wave of paralyzing anxiety.
Misha was lost in her own dark thoughts, staring blankly out the window, her mind far away.
I, too, was deep in my own thoughts, my brain racing to process the terrifying speed with which our lives had been dismantled.
The whole family had been irrevocably shaken by the accident and now the loss of Mumma. But my immediate, piercing worry was for Misha and Karthik. Misha was beside me, fragile and broken, but at least she was visible. Karthik, however, was still missing.
I was gripped by a visceral fear for Karthik. I had no idea where he was, consumed by his rage and grief, driving alone and unreachable.
What if he did something reckless? What if he crashed? The thought was a sharp, cold jab of terror.
As the silence stretched, I couldn't stand the uncertainty anymore. I pulled out my phone and frantically tried to call him, but each attempt was met only by the grating, impersonal sound of the computerized voice, "The number you have dialed is currently switched off." His phone was switched off.
Desperate, I immediately tried to call Vihaan. He had chased after Karthik hours ago. They should have been back by now. But again, the line was dead. His phone was also switched off.
The inability to reach either of them only magnified my terror. The silence in the car became a roaring threat, filled with images of them lost or hurt.
I gripped the seatbelt, fighting the urge to scream. We were driving toward an unknown crisis at the hospital, and the two men were entirely out of reach.
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Thank you all for reading the ninth chapter!
If anyone was offended by this chapter then I am so sorry. But I really respect each and every religion, so, please don't hate the book.
I hope you are enjoying the book so far!
If you are genuinely like this chapter then please vote and comment how was the chapter.
Happy reading 💛💛
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