10. Raman is awake

"Ve Meinu Duniya Taane Maare

Ve Main Chhad Aavan Mahal Minaare

Ve Meinu Laija Takht Hazaare

Jithe Ishq De Hon Nazaare

Ve Aakho Heer Heer Na Koi

Ve Main Ta Jogan Ohdi Hoi

Ni Ranjha Ranjha Kardi Kardi Ve Main

Aape Ranjha Hoi"

💛💛💛

I was sitting in Shivansh's car, the low hum of the engine a monotonous backdrop to my thoughts.

My mind drifted backward, settling on a distinct moment from my childhood—a vivid memory from when I was just in the second grade.

It was a day etched in my mind because I had mistakenly broken Mumma's favorite, prized vase.

The image of the shattered porcelain on the floor brought with it the immediate, gut-wrenching feeling of panic and guilt.

I started crying, great, heaving sobs that seemed to shake my small frame. It wasn't long before Mumma rushed over, taking in the scene.

Instead of the anger I was dreading, she knelt down, gently pulling me into a hug, and with a soft, comforting voice, she said, "Mishu, it's fine, it's just a vase." Her understanding instantly calmed my despair.

To further soothe my upset, she even went the extra mile and made my absolute favorite treat: crispy, tangy pani puri. Her love, her immediate forgiveness, and her exceptional care were truly above everything else to me, they were the defining constants of my world.

The sudden, sharp deceleration of the car pulled me abruptly out of the nostalgic warmth of my thoughts. We had stopped right in front of the imposing glass entrance of the hospital.

"Mishu, chalo", Rithika said, her voice clear and practical, as she opened her door and stepped out onto the curb.

(let's go)

I took a deep breath, gathered my composure, and got out of the car, joining Rithika. We walked side-by-side, the gravity of our destination settling over us as we entered the sterile, bright interior of the hospital.

Rithika had always been a steadfast presence in my life, an anchor of unwavering support. I recalled a recent, difficult conversation we'd had.

When I first told her about my prognosis—the chances of me dying—I don't know why, but the news made her cry. It was a raw display of emotion that highlighted the profound depth of her care and loyalty, reinforcing just how much she meant to me.

We walked towards the reception desk, our footsteps hushed against the polished hospital floor. It was there we spotted Ashok uncle. He looked tired, standing awkwardly near the waiting area.

Rithika quickly approached him, her concern evident. "Uncle, kya hua? Aap yahan kyun khade ho? " she asked gently.

(Uncle, what happened? Why are you standing here?)

A huge wave of relief washed over Ashok uncle's face as he saw us. "Beta, Raman ko hosh aa gaya hai ," he announced, his voice thick with emotion.

(Child, Raman has regained consciousness)

Hearing those words—that Papa was awake—my heart leaped into my throat. I didn't wait for another second. I immediately turned and practically flew toward Papa's room. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside and saw him. He was lying in the bed, pale but unmistakably himself.

"Papa!" I cried out, my voice breaking with the overwhelming rush of relief and love. I ran to the bedside and enveloped him in a careful hug, tears streaming down my face.

He patted my back weakly, pulling back slightly to look at my tear-stained face. "Beta, kya hua? Main bilkul theek hoon," he reassured me with a faint, tired smile.

(Child, what happened? I am absolutely fine)

I pulled back from the hug, composing myself, and suddenly realized that Ashok uncle, and Siddharth uncle—were all staring intensely at me. I was about to ask what was wrong when Papa spoke again, and his next words froze me completely.

"Misha, can you please let me meet my Manisha?"

The world tilted. I was utterly shocked. Manisha. That was Mumma's name.

I slowly turned my gaze toward Siddharth uncle, the fear of the unknown gripping me. He simply shook his head slightly, a gesture that silently confirmed my worst fear, Papa didn't know about Mumma's death.

I didn't know what to say or how to tell him the devastating truth. The words felt too heavy, too cruel to speak in this fragile moment. I was standing there like a senseless statue, my mind blank with despair.

It was Rithika who stepped forward, always the quick-thinker, the protector. She intervened seamlessly, offering a temporary shield to Papa's heart.

"Papa, pehle aap theek ho jao. Baad mein hum baat karte hain," she said firmly but kindly, her voice not allowing any room for argument.

(Papa, first you get better. We will talk later)

The moment Rithika finished her sentence, I knew I couldn't stay. I didn't trust my expression or my composure. Turning swiftly, I walked straight out of the room, needing air and space.

I found an empty chair in the waiting area, sank onto it, and sat staring blankly at the closed door of the room where Papa now lay, fully aware of the crushing burden of the truth we were keeping from him.

I didn't know how to tell my Papa the truth—that Mumma was gone. The words felt impossible, lodged somewhere painful in my throat.

More than anything in that moment, I desperately wanted my Bhai to be there.

I needed his strength, his presence, to navigate this crushing responsibility.

"Misha."

I heard my name being called and looked up. It was Karthik bhai. He walked over and quietly sat down beside me on the waiting room chair.

The sight of him was an immediate relief. I quickly explained everything that had transpired in the room, Papa waking up, his question about Mumma, and the collective shock and silence that followed.

I knew exactly where my bhai was going next. He stood up, his face set in a grim expression.

I wanted to stop him, to warn him about the pain, but I wasn't in a state where I could utter a single word or move a muscle.

"Main Papa se mil ke aata hoon ," he simply said, before turning and walking into the room.

(I will go and meet Papa)

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, Bhai returned. He stopped in front of me and spoke, his voice low and carefully controlled.

"Papa is sleeping," he said. "Let's tell him about Mumma later." Despite his efforts to sound calm, I could clearly identify the struggle in his voice, he was fighting back deep emotion.

I simply nodded, unable to speak, and he walked away, likely to find a quiet space to process the heartache.

I felt the chair dip slightly as someone sat beside me. I turned and found Rida.

She looked at me with open sympathy, her eyes soft. "Di, I know that whatever I tell you cannot bring back Manisha Aunty," she began, choosing her words carefully.

Then, with a gentle push for me to engage, she added, "But, Di, please kuch kha lo ," as she held out, foil-wrapped chocolate.

It was a Bubbly—my absolute favorite. I took it immediately, mostly because I didn't want to disappoint her thoughtful effort.

I tore open the wrapper and began eating it, the sweet, familiar taste a momentary distraction from the weight in my chest.

A moment later, Rithika came over and sat down on my other side. She looked at me first, a silent check of my well-being, and then her eyes shifted to Rida.

She offered Rida a profound, silent thank you with her eyes, a look that spoke volumes of gratitude. Rida simply smiled back, a small gesture acknowledging their shared effort to support me.

Rithika suddenly got up from the chair and walked silently out of the waiting area. I watched her go, a familiar knot tightening in my stomach.

I knew exactly what was going on inside Rithika's mind. She was carrying the weight of the moment, the stress of hiding the truth from Papa, and likely processing her own grief for Mumma, which she had pushed aside to be my support.

She had been the strong one, the practical one, the one who took charge when I couldn't speak, but even her composure had limits.

She probably needed a moment, a brief escape from the intensity of the hospital corridor and the silent, shared anxiety over what came next.

I chose not to follow her immediately. I made a mental note to talk to her later, when we were away from the watchful eyes of the hospital and the immediate crisis.

I was sure she would be fine; Rithika was resilient and fiercely pragmatic. She always returned, ready to face whatever came next.

For now, I stayed seated, clutching the chocolate wrapper, letting her have the temporary privacy she clearly needed.

I stood silently in the corner of the sterile hospital hallway, the fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead.

My attention snapped up as I saw Karthik rush out of a nearby room, his movements erratic and driven by a desperate energy.

Rithika was right on his heels, a frantic look etched onto her face, and she reached out, trying to physically stop him, but he barreled past, completely unresponsive.

Once he was gone, Rithika turned toward me, her breath hitching, her expression a mixture of panic and deep concern.

"Please, Vihaan," she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper against the silence, "follow him. He needs to scream somewhere. You, I, or perhaps Misha are the only people he'd listen to right now."

I nodded once, the gravity of her request settling instantly. I didn't need to ask for details the raw fear in Karthik's eyes was explanation enough.

I turned and rushed out of the hospital entrance. My eyes immediately caught a glimpse of his car—a dark sedan—careening out of the parking lot at an alarming speed, tires squealing in protest.

Sprinting to my own car, I threw open the door and hopped inside. My hands instinctively gripped the steering wheel, and I pulled out of the parking lot, following the fading taillights of Karthik's vehicle. He was already far ahead.

As I merged onto the main road, I quickly pulled up my phone and called my assistant. "Mr. Sharma," I stated, my voice firm despite the adrenaline pumping through me, "clear the road that heads towards Mysore. I need an open path, immediately. No traffic snarls, no unexpected roadblocks."

"Consider it done, sir," he hummed in response, the familiar calm in his voice a small anchor in the chaos, and the call disconnected.

Karthik was driving with reckless abandon, pushing his car—and his emotional limit—to the maximum. I maintained a deliberate distance.

He was already in a fragile state, and the last thing I wanted was to cause an accident or make him feel cornered, which would only exacerbate his emotional spiral. I drove fast, but with calculated precision, letting the open road guide our desperate convoy.

The frantic, high-speed chase lasted for just over two harrowing hours. The blurring cityscape eventually gave way to the familiar, rolling green landscape of the countryside.

Finally, the sedan I was following slowed, veered off the main road, and pulled up abruptly at the gates of his secluded farmhouse. He didn't wait, he simply threw open the door and stumbled out of the car.

I stopped my vehicle a respectful distance behind his, the gravel crunching beneath my tires. I got out and quietly followed him inside, allowing him a head start, an illusion of privacy.

The front door of the farmhouse was ajar. I pushed it open gently and stepped into the living area.

The room was spacious and silent, the afternoon light streaming through the large windows, illuminating dust motes in the air.

He wasn't in the living area, nor was he in the adjoining kitchen, though a glass of water sat half-filled on the counter, abandoned.

I began my search, moving methodically through the ground floor. That's when my eyes landed on an open doorway near the back. I walked in, my steps measured and light, and found Karthik inside.

He was standing in the center of what I recognized as Manisha aunty's and Raman uncle's room, completely motionless. His back was facing me, but the sheer rigidity of his shoulders and the defeated slump of his posture spoke volumes.

I had never seen the normally composed, driven Karthik in such a state—raw, exposed, and teetering on the edge of collapse. He was so lost in his pain that he didn't realize I was there.

I walked softly across the wooden floor, closing the gap between us. When I reached him, I did not speak. Instead, I placed one of my hands gently yet firmly on his shoulders.

He flinched violently at the contact, the sound of my presence finally registering. He slowly turned to face me.

The sight was gut-wrenching. His eyes were bloodshot, glistening with a fresh, uncontrollable flood of tears that traced hot paths down his cheeks.

He wasn't sobbing—it was a silent, deep, and utterly devastating breakdown.

"Karthik, you can't do this to yourself," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with genuine sorrow and unwavering resolve. I took a deliberate step closer, ensuring our eyes met.

"If you let yourself break down completely like this, right now, imagine Misha. She is barely holding on as it is.

She is in unimaginable pain, and she needs your strength now more than ever. She needs your face, your resilience, and your support. How much she must want and depend on your presence right now."

🦋

We sat in the dusty room for what felt like an eternity, the silence punctuated only by the distant sounds of the countryside and the shallow rhythm of Karthik's breathing. The weight of his grief was palpable, a heavy cloak settling over the room.

Finally, after hours of agonizing stillness, Karthik shifted. He stood up slowly, the movement strained, like an old man rising from his chair.

He looked at me, his eyes still red and swollen, but with a flicker of renewed purpose—a terrifying blend of despair and resolve. "Vihaan, let's go," he stated, his voice raspy and low. "Let's go back to Misha and... my Mishti."

He didn't wait for a reply, simply walking out of the room and through the farmhouse. I followed him, closing the door quietly behind us.

He stopped abruptly in front of his aggressively driven sedan, his hand hovering over the door handle. He dropped his gaze to the ground. "I can't drive, Vihaan," he admitted, his voice barely audible, laced with shame and exhaustion.

I nodded instantly, offering silent understanding instead of unnecessary reassurances. We walked together towards my car and settled into the quiet interior.

I started the engine, the low purr breaking the tense silence, and drove off from the farm, heading back towards the city and the harsh reality of the hospital.

Karthik sat beside me in the passenger seat, rigid and silent. The drive was an uncomfortable stretch of time, filled with a dense, awkward silence that pressed in on both of us.

He stared straight ahead, his mind clearly racing miles beyond the car's headlights.

After what seemed like ages, he finally shifted in his seat and spoke, his voice cracking slightly as he broke the spell. "I am such a bad husband and a terrible brother."

I offered a simple, non-committal hum of acknowledgement, prompting him gently to continue if he needed to. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Rithika... she's pregnant, and I just left her there at the hospital, running off to wallow in my own pain."

"Karthik," I began, slowing my voice to be as steady and grounding as possible.

"I know that you are in an immense amount of pain right now. What you're dealing with is overwhelming. Trust me, Bhabhi will understand your situation. She knows you. She knows this breakdown wasn't abandonment, but a moment of sheer necessity."

We reached the hospital complex after another stretch of quiet driving. The air of the city felt colder and harsher than the country air we had left behind.

The minute I pulled up to the entrance, Karthik got out of the car, his earlier exhaustion now overridden by a renewed, desperate urgency. He walked swiftly towards the main doors and disappeared inside.

I took a moment to park the car. Before leaving the driver's seat, I reached into the compartment and pulled out a chocolate bar—a Cadbury Bubbly.

It was a small, frivolous comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, and something Misha always appreciated.

As I entered the busy hospital lobby, my eyes caught Rida standing near the reception area. Misha, in her current state, wasn't likely to accept anything directly from me—she often retreated when too much sympathy was shown. I walked over to Rida.

"Rida," I said quietly, handing her the chocolate. "Could you give this to Misha, please?."

She gave me a gentle smile, nodding in understanding. "Of course, Vihaan bhai. I will." She then turned and walked toward Misha's room.

Only a few minutes later, I saw Karthik walking quickly back towards me, his expression unreadable. I raised an eyebrow, silently asking why he wasn't still with Misha.

"Papa is awake," he stated simply, a hint of awe and relief in his voice.

He didn't elaborate, just gave a curt nod and swiftly walked out the main entrance once more, presumably to make a phone call or get some air.

I was still processing this unexpected news when, less than two minutes later, Rithika approached me. She looked tired but composed, her eyes scanning the lobby. "Vihaan," she asked immediately, "where is Karthik? Did you bring him back?"

I pointed towards the doors he had just exited. "He just stepped outside, but he told me that uncle is awake."

A wave of emotion—part confusion, part relief—crossed her face. "Thank you," she whispered, and without another word, she turned and hurried out to find her husband.

🦋

I walked silently into Raman Uncle's private room. The atmosphere was thick with a strange, nervous energy—a mixture of relief that he was awake and profound anxiety over Misha.

The room was already crowded; many familiar faces were gathered around the bedside, all known to me, their collective worry hanging heavy in the air.

Raman Uncle lay propped up against the pillows, looking frail but alert. He scanned the faces around him, his gaze finally settling on Karthik, who stood closest to the bed, shoulders still tense with residual grief.

His first words, though weak, cut through the tension with jarring clarity. "Beta, Manisha kaha hai?" he asked, the question ringing out with an expectation that instantly froze every person in the room.

(Child, where is Manisha)

Karthik closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a heavy, ragged sigh. He knew this moment was coming, but it didn't make delivering the news any easier.

He took a difficult step closer to the bed. "Papa," he began, his voice strained but steady, "Mumma... Mumma, abhi nahi rahi."

(Mumma is no more)

The words hung suspended in the air for a horrifying beat. Raman Uncle's eyes, wide with disbelief and horror, fixed on Karthik's face.

The color drained completely from his own. His breathing, which had been slow and shallow, immediately became uneven and rapid.

A choking sound escaped his throat, and the monitor beside his bed began to beep with a frantic, alarming rhythm.

Panic seized the room. Without a second thought, I spun on my heel and rushed out of the room, shouting down the corridor for medical help. "Doctor! We need a doctor immediately!"

I barely had to search. A doctor , alerted by the monitor or perhaps the noise, heard my desperate call. The doctor, a harried-looking man, listened for a swift second to my explanation and we both ran back into Raman Uncle's room.

The doctor moved with swift, professional urgency, pushing past the stunned. He immediately assessed the patient, checking his pulse and listening to his chest, his eyes flicking constantly to the spiking cardiac monitor.

"Get back, everyone, give him air!" the doctor instructed sharply. He quickly prepared a syringe and administered an injection into Raman Uncle's IV line.

The effect wasn't immediate, but the rapid, uneven rhythm on the monitor began to stabilize slightly, pulling back from the edge.

The doctor straightened up, his face grim. He directed his warning not just at Karthik, but at everyone present.

"I've given him an injection for now," he said, his voice low and serious, "but you absolutely cannot give him any further stress. His heart is severely compromised. Any more emotional shock, and it could easily cause a fatal cardiac arrest."

He completed his words, a stark, terrifying silence following his diagnosis. The doctor gave one last look at the still-recovering man and then swiftly left the room, leaving the rest of us frozen in place with the heavy, unspoken weight of his command,the fragile life of Raman Uncle now depended entirely on our silence and our restraint.

______________________________________

After the doctor delivered his stern warning and left the room, a heavy, disbelieving silence settled over us. No one dared to speak, fearing the slightest sound or movement might further endanger Raman.

After a long, tense moment of collective paralysis, everyone slowly began to file out of the critical care room, recognizing the need to leave him in absolute peace.

Everyone elocated to the waiting area outside. Anushka, Anika, and Shwetha sank into the hard, plastic chairs, their faces pale and drawn. The rest of us remained standing, too wired by anxiety to rest.

Karthik, showing a rare moment of concern despite his own turmoil, walked over to Rithika.

"Mishti," he asked softly, "do you want to sit? You need to take care of yourself." Rithika, though pregnant and exhausted, simply shook her head in denial, preferring to lean against the wall, her gaze fixed on the closed door.

Around the waiting area, small groups clustered silently: Rida and Saira stood near Akshara, Noor, and Ruhi, a silent wall of support.

Meanwhile, Misha remained strangely detached, standing slightly apart next to Shivansh and Ayaan, her expression unreadable—a mask of profound grief and determination.

Three agonizing hours crawled by. The weight of the impending loss was almost suffocating. Finally, Misha, unable to bear the static silence any longer, walked quietly back inside Raman's room, needing to see him one last time.

She stood by his bedside, watching him closely, and then gasped softly. She saw it: a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. Raman's fingers were moving slightly against the white sheet.

Seeing this small sign of life, a desperate surge of hope brought her racing out. "He's moving!" she called out, her voice cracking.

Everyone surged back into the room. Raman slowly, painstakingly, opened his eyes. He saw Misha standing over him, tears welling in her eyes, and managed a faint, tired smile.

Misha, frantic, immediately asked Saira, "Call the doctors, quickly! Tell them he's awake!"

But before the doctor could arrive, Raman spoke, his voice thin and sad, clearly taking immense effort. He looked directly at Misha, his eyes pleading. "Misha beta," he whispered, "if I die... can you please marry Vihaan?"

The request hit the room like a physical shockwave. Everyone froze. Misha immediately leaned over him, her eyes wide with urgency, not emotion. "Papa, stop speaking," she pleaded, ignoring the substance of his shocking last wish, focused only on preserving his strength. "You need to rest. We'll talk later."

The doctor rushed into the room a moment later, his expression hardening when he saw the distressed state of his patient.

He started checking Raman's vitals immediately. The tense atmosphere was palpable, and the doctor, recognizing the immediate danger of emotional stress, wasted no time.

"Everyone, out now!" he commanded sternly. "You must all leave the room."

This time, no one argued. They turned and left without uttering a single word, leaving the medical team to fight the invisible battle for his life.

Outside, they waited, listening to the frantic rustle of equipment and the low voices of the medical staff. The intermittent beeping of the vital machine was the only sound linking us to the life within.

Then, the rhythmic beeping faltered. It sped up, then became erratic, before finally dissolving into a long, unbearable silence. The vitals had deteriorated rapidly.

Despite the doctors doing their absolute best, working against impossible odds, they could not pull him back.

A moment later, the electronic vital machine emitted a continuous, flat tone—a straight line across the screen—indicating that Raman had died.

The doctors emerged from the room, their faces etched with defeat. "We did everything we could," one said quietly, looking at the stunned group. "He suffered a massive cardiac arrest. He is no longer alive."

The finality of the statement crushed the last vestiges of hope, leaving only profound, agonizing despair in the sterile hospital corridor.

______________________________________

Ufff,

I know this chapter might be traumatising and there are things in this chapter that is similar in my life. And please don't ask what is it.

Ok so readers how was the chapter?

And this week I am going to upload one chapter on Thursday and one on Friday.