Rishsav Sharma
Chapter 1
The first snowfall had already blanketed the narrow trails leading up to the mountain ashram by the time Dr. Shreyashi Mehra arrived. Her boots crunched softly against the icy path, each step a delicate negotiation between pain and purpose. The cold wind rushed past her ears, but she barely noticed; she had long grown used to the numbness, both physical and emotional. Perched at 7,000 feet in the remote folds of the lower Himalayas, the ashram was a cluster of stone and timber structures nestled beneath ancient pine trees, smoke spiraling faintly from chimneys as if the place breathed its own silent rhythm. Shreyashi stood at the entrance, her breath visibly rising, suitcase in hand, coat buttoned high, and painkillers tucked deep in her coat pocket. Her right leg, still healing from the accident three months ago, throbbed dully beneath the thermal lining. But the greater ache was invisible—the one lodged somewhere between her ribs, stitched together with old guilt, unresolved grief, and a loneliness that no scalpel could reach.
Inside, the ashram was a world in contrast to the sterile brightness of hospital corridors she’d known all her life. The reception area—if one could call it that—was a simple wooden desk flanked by hand-painted murals of lotus blossoms and serene rivers. A bell chimed somewhere deep within, low and earthy, as if signaling the beginning of something sacred. A young woman in saffron wool, with laughing eyes and hands that moved like poetry, greeted her with folded palms. “Welcome, Dr. Shreyashi. We’ve been expecting you.” The words surprised her. Expecting her? As if fate itself had made a reservation. Shreyashi offered a weary nod. Her voice had grown distant lately, brittle from disuse. She filled in the visitor register with stiff fingers, writing her name slower than she ever had in her life. The woman—Shikha, she would later learn—led her past the quiet dining hall, the meditation center, and into a small cottage named Chaitanya, one of the quieter quarters reserved for long-stay guests. The room had little more than a cot, a writing desk, a fireplace, and a single window overlooking the snowy slope. A steaming cup of tulsi tea waited on the desk. She limped toward the window and sat down, staring at the falling flakes in silence.
Evening fell like a hush over the mountains. The ashram bells rang in intervals, guiding the community through its rhythms—prayer, meal, rest, silence. From her window, Shreyashi watched silhouettes moving quietly, bundled in shawls, engaged in rituals unfamiliar to her. Somewhere near the firewood pile, she spotted a man seated on a bench, motionless except for the shifting of his fingers over a notebook. His face was partially hidden by a thick scarf and tousled hair, but something about him—a stillness that wasn’t just physical—caught her attention. As the dusk settled, he rose and disappeared into the stone corridor that led to the east wing. She didn’t know then that this man, Kaustav Roy, would soon become the mirror she never asked for—the one that would show her not what she had lost, but what she still carried within. Later that night, as she lay curled beneath thick blankets, the fire crackling, she replayed the ashram’s silence in her head. It was not empty. It was full of echoes. Her breath slowed. She was still a woman broken by pain, but the storm inside her had paused. For now.
Sleep, when it came, came unevenly—through shards of dreams and flashes of memories. Surgical lights. Screams. The screeching of metal. And Ratul’s voice on the phone, saying nothing, just breathing. Shreyashi jolted awake, heart pounding. It was the first night she hadn’t slept with sleeping pills since the accident. The room was cold, but the fire still glowed softly in the hearth. She sat up and reached for her journal but found her hand trembling too much to write. Instead, she stared at the wooden ceiling and whispered, almost defiantly, “I’m still here.” As if the mountains were listening. As if they knew how much it cost her to come. Somewhere outside, the snow kept falling. And not far from her window, Kaustav Roy—unseen, unknown—was awake too, watching the stars alone, words forming in his mind that he dared not yet speak aloud. Not yet.
Chapter 2
Shreyashi’s first full day in the ashram began in semi-darkness, stirred awake by the ringing of the morning bell that echoed gently through the pine-scented air. She pulled the thick woolen shawl over her shoulders and stepped outside onto the frost-lined porch of her cottage. The sun had not yet risen, but a faint indigo hue caressed the snowy slopes, hinting at a dawn that was both distant and intimate. Her breath fogged the air as she walked—limping slightly—toward the central meditation hall where others had already gathered. She sat in the back row, legs folded uncomfortably, body stiff. Around her, the silence was sacred, not empty. The chanting began softly—a low, ancient sound that wrapped around her like balm. But instead of calming her, it stirred something deeper. Her mind betrayed her with flashes: an operating room, blue scrubs soaked in blood, the clock ticking too fast, and her own voice shaking as she whispered to the nurse, “We’re losing him.” She flinched. Her breath caught. The bell at the end of the session startled her out of memory, and she rose with effort, eyes damp.
Shikha met her at the dining hall, offering a warm smile and a metal plate filled with khichdi and stewed apples. “First morning’s the hardest,” she said, sitting beside her. Shreyashi managed a nod. She had never been one for small talk, and grief had made her quieter still. But Shikha’s energy was unassuming, her presence like sunlight that didn’t ask to be noticed but warmed you anyway. “Some people run here to escape,” Shikha continued gently, “but the mountains… they’re mirrors, not shields.” Shreyashi looked up sharply, as if her thoughts had been read. After breakfast, she wandered into the library, a room that smelled of old paper, incense, and woodsmoke. The shelves were stacked with books on philosophy, medicine, poetry, and journals left behind by former guests. Her fingers paused on a volume of translated Tagore poems, its spine cracked. She sat down by the window and opened it. Tucked between the pages was a scrap of handmade paper with lines scrawled in ink:
“In the silence between mountains, grief whispers softer than it screams. Yet I still hear it, even here.”
The handwriting was unfamiliar, rough yet elegant. She stared at it for a long moment before slipping it into her coat pocket. She did not know then that it was Kaustav’s.
Later that day, as snow fell steadily outside, Shreyashi walked past the firewood shed again. The same man sat there, unmoving, writing furiously in his notebook. Their eyes met for the briefest moment—his gaze unreadable, her own guarded. She looked away first. Back in her room, she reread the lines she had found. Who writes such sorrow in a place of healing? That night, she lit the fire, sat cross-legged near it, and wrote in her journal for the first time in weeks. Not about surgery. Not about Ratul. Just feelings. Impressions. The color of snow. The sound of the mountain’s breath. She ended the entry with a single line: “Maybe pain echoes because it has nowhere else to go.” And outside, beneath the same sky, Kaustav wrote another verse—never knowing his words had already found a reader.
Chapter 3
The next few days slipped by in quiet repetition—bells marking time, snow settling on rooftops, and routines slowly taking root within Shreyashi’s bruised soul. She began to move more fluidly, joining the early chants, eating simple meals, even walking further despite the ache in her leg. Yet something within her remained taut, as though healing would betray the weight of her suffering. Her only escape was the library, where she kept returning to that same book of poems and its silent guardian—more of Kaustav’s notes had begun to appear, tucked into pages, scribbled in margins. They weren’t meant for her, she knew, but she read them anyway. There was pain in those lines, yes, but also a quiet surrender. She started leaving her own responses—brief reflections, questions, even arguments—in the blank spaces beside his. And though they never spoke, a strange conversation had begun between them, carried by ink and unspoken understanding.
One late afternoon, she spotted him in the garden, alone with a spade in one hand, clearing a narrow path through the snow. He looked older up close—shadows under his eyes, fingers smudged with ink even in this task. As she passed by, their eyes met again, this time held for a heartbeat longer. Shreyashi, compelled by a pull she could not name, paused. “The poem in the Tagore book,” she said quietly. “You wrote it.” Kaustav’s shoulders tensed. For a moment, he seemed ready to walk away. But then he nodded once, his voice low. “I write what I cannot say. That doesn’t make it worth reading.” She frowned. “It was worth reading. It stayed with me.” That was the first true exchange. No names. No pleasantries. Just truth, raw and simple. He gave her a long look, as if searching for cracks in her own armor. “Some things shouldn’t stay,” he murmured, before returning to his work.
That night, Shreyashi could not sleep. She lit a candle by her window and opened her journal. Her hand moved faster now, as if her pain had finally found permission to take shape. She wrote not for catharsis, not for clarity—but simply to make sense of this quiet man who wore his grief like a threadbare scarf. Who was Kaustav Roy? What had broken him? And why, of all the places, had he come here to vanish? The next morning, tucked inside the library book, she left a folded note: “If silence were a language, maybe we both speak it too well. Tell me one thing you miss—anything. I’ll tell you one too.” She left it unsigned.
By evening, the note was gone.
And in its place, another had appeared: “I miss the sound of rain on a tin roof. And you?” Beneath it, a faint initial: K.
Shreyashi smiled, despite herself. Her reply followed swiftly: “I miss hearing someone say my name without pity.” Thus began their quiet dialogue—notes slipped between pages, a communion of strangers healing without touch, without promises. In that unvoiced intimacy, something tender began to bloom. Not love. Not yet. But something equally rare—a trust unspoken, slowly unfolding in the hush between footsteps and snowflakes.
Chapter 4
The rhythm of the ashram had begun to stitch itself into Shreyashi’s bones. The ringing of the morning bell no longer startled her but summoned her like a pulse. She walked steadier now, braving longer distances, even helping Shikha with firewood once or twice, despite the dull ache in her thigh. Each day, the exchange with Kaustav continued—new notes nestled within pages of poetry, sometimes waiting in unexpected places like under a meditation cushion or between the folds of her blanket. Their confessions had become deeper now, more personal: fragments of memory, questions without answers, unspoken grief. Still, they never acknowledged each other in public, never exchanged words beyond that one brief conversation. It was as if speaking aloud might shatter the fragile thread they were weaving.
On a particularly grey afternoon, Shikha invited Shreyashi to join her for tea in the small community kitchen usually reserved for the long-term volunteers. Shreyashi hesitated but relented. The room smelled of cardamom and ash. Kaustav was already there, pouring water into a clay teapot with quiet precision. Their eyes met, but neither said a word. Shikha, sensing the tension, broke the silence with her usual brightness. “Kaustav makes the best mountain chai, but he won’t admit it. Try it, Shreyashi. You’ll never go back to your city cafes.” Kaustav said nothing, just offered her a cup without looking directly at her. She took it. It was warm, gently spiced, not unlike the feeling that had started to take root in her chest. For the first time, they sat in the same room, not as strangers, but not quite as friends either. A space in between, crackling quietly like the fire behind them.
Later that evening, Shreyashi returned to her cottage to find a small piece of paper tucked inside her journal. This time, no poem—just a question: “Do you ever wonder who you were before the world told you who to be?” She stared at it for a long time. Her answer didn’t come easily, but when it did, she wrote: “I think I was kinder. And freer. Before the hospital gowns and the need to save everyone.” She folded it gently and left it under his favorite book in the library. The act of writing it down stirred something unfamiliar—a release, a confession, a lightness. The notes had moved beyond curiosity now. They were becoming something essential.
The next morning, she found a folded page near the wooden bench where Kaustav often sat. It read: “I used to write because it felt like breathing. Then loss took the air from the room.” No signature this time. But she didn’t need one. That night, the snowfall returned, soft and steady. Shreyashi stood by her window, sipping the mountain chai she now brewed herself, and watched as the flakes layered the world in white. Somewhere in the east wing, Kaustav was probably doing the same. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how long this connection would last. But for the first time in months, she felt the beginnings of something she thought she had lost forever—belonging.
Chapter 5
The snow thickened over the next few days, blanketing the world in a hush that seemed to wrap around every breath Shreyashi took. The notes between her and Kaustav continued, more frequent now, more vulnerable. But it was on the fifth evening that everything shifted. She found a folded envelope left under her teacup in the kitchen. Her name was written on it—not as a note, but as a letter. Inside was a single page, written in Kaustav’s steady hand. It was addressed not to her but to someone named Anirban. As she read, she realized it was a letter Kaustav had written to his younger brother who had passed away. The words were raw, the grief unfiltered. It spoke of guilt, helplessness, and the silence that had followed his brother’s death—a silence Kaustav had mistaken for peace but had only buried him deeper.
Shreyashi didn’t know why he had shared it with her, but she held the letter like something sacred. That night, she opened her own journal and began writing a letter she had never allowed herself to write—to Ratul. It was not a plea or an accusation, but an honest outpouring of everything she had carried alone since the accident: the loneliness, the guilt, the feeling of being a ghost in her own life. She didn’t plan to send it. She didn’t need to. Writing it was enough. At dawn, both letters—Kaustav’s to Anirban, and hers to Ratul—were placed together at the ashram’s small temple, where a fire constantly burned for prayer offerings. They stood side by side in silence as the flames consumed the paper, releasing what had been unspoken for too long. No words passed between them, but the act felt like a communion.
That afternoon, the first thaw set in. Icicles began to drip. Shreyashi and Kaustav crossed paths near the meditation hall, and this time he stopped. “Thank you,” he said softly. She nodded, her throat tight. “For what?” she asked. “For not asking me to be anything other than what I am.” The simplicity of it broke something loose in her. “You let me speak without talking,” she replied. He smiled faintly. “We should all be allowed that.”
That evening, Kaustav did something unexpected. He gave her one of his old poetry journals. “These are pieces I never showed anyone,” he said. “If they feel too heavy, burn them.” She didn’t. Instead, she stayed up late, reading them by the fire. Each word was a stepping stone through someone else’s darkness, and she realized: healing was not a leap, but a series of quiet choices. And they had both just made one.
Chapter 6
The avalanche came not with thunder but with a soft rumble—like a sigh too long held. A minor slide just a few kilometers down the only access road to the ashram sealed it off for days. No one was harmed, but the way out had disappeared under a thick quilt of snow and stone. For most of the residents, the delay was a mere extension of their retreat. But for Shreyashi and Kaustav, it brought a sense of suspended time. The days grew longer, not by the sun but by the spaces they began to occupy in each other’s world. They now walked together after meals—slow, meandering strolls through the ashram garden. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes not. But even in silence, things were being said.
One evening, Shreyashi found Kaustav by the fire pit, feeding scraps of bread to Kavi, the old mountain dog who had become the ashram’s silent guardian. She joined him without a word, sitting cross-legged on the stone bench beside him. “He likes you,” she said softly. Kaustav shrugged. “He listens. That’s more than most people do.” She nodded, watching the dog curl at their feet. The fire crackled, and a snowflake landed on her hand, melted instantly. “I used to think I needed to be needed,” she confessed. “That being useful made me matter.” Kaustav turned slightly, studying her profile. “And now?” She smiled faintly. “Now I think I just want to matter to myself.”
In the days that followed, they began working together in the ashram’s modest clinic. A flu had begun making its way through the retreat, and with Shreyashi’s medical training and Kaustav’s quiet steadiness, they became an unlikely team—he organizing herbs and supplies, she tending to fevers and checking pulses. Watching him soothe a frightened child with nothing but a poem whispered like a lullaby undid something in her. One night, as they boiled water together over the kitchen fire, she said, “You’d have made a fine doctor.” He chuckled. “I think one of us with a savior complex is enough.” She laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months.
But it wasn’t just laughter that had returned—it was the ache of feeling again. One night, as they parted ways at the door of the east wing, their hands brushed. Neither moved away. For a long moment, they simply stood there, the silence loud between them. “This,” he said, not quite a question. “Is not simple,” she finished. “But it’s real.” He leaned in slightly, then stopped. “Not yet,” he whispered. She nodded. “When it’s time.” And with that, they walked away from each other—not in fear, but in understanding. In a world blanketed by snow, something warm had begun to bloom beneath.
Chapter 7
The snow began to melt slowly, leaving behind slushy paths and streams of icy water that trickled down the mountain slopes. With the road partially cleared, the ashram received its first post in days—bundles of letters and packages wrapped in burlap. Shreyashi was surprised to find a familiar handwriting on one of the envelopes handed to her by Shikha. It was from Ratul. The name alone made her hands freeze. She carried the letter back to her room, untouched, and left it on her desk for two days, unsure whether to open the door to a voice she had deliberately left behind. Kaustav noticed the shift in her demeanor, the way her laughter came less easily, how her walks had become more solitary again. But he didn’t ask. He had learned to let her come to him when she was ready.
On the third night, as a storm brewed in the valley below, Shreyashi finally opened the letter. Ratul’s words were apologetic, cautious. He wanted to meet—said he had things to say, regrets to share. The letter didn’t blame or demand. It was just… sad. She sat with it for hours, reading and rereading, unsure if this message was a tether pulling her back or an offering allowing her to truly let go. The next morning, she told Kaustav about it. He listened, quietly, his gaze steady. “Will you go?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Part of me thinks I owe him closure. Another part feels like I’ve already said goodbye.”
That day passed in a gentle quiet between them. They worked together, shared tea, even laughed a little—but something unspoken loomed. That evening, Shreyashi walked alone to the temple, lit a lamp, and sat with her thoughts. Swami Nandadev found her there and sat beside her, as he often did when someone needed presence, not words. “Some flowers,” he said, “bloom in winter not because they defy the season—but because they’ve learned to wait for light in the cold.” She didn’t respond but felt the words settle inside her like truth. She realized then that meeting Ratul wasn’t about reopening wounds. It was about seeing them as scars—proof that healing had already begun.
Two days later, bundled in her shawl, Shreyashi took a short trip down to the village where she had arranged to meet Ratul. The conversation was brief. He apologized, genuinely. She listened. When he asked if there was a chance to begin again, she shook her head with quiet certainty. “We’ve both changed. And I’ve found peace in that change.” They parted with mutual respect, but no promises. When she returned to the ashram by sunset, Kaustav was waiting on the stone steps. No words were exchanged. She simply walked up to him, leaned into his shoulder, and whispered, “Thank you for not asking me to stay.” He placed a hand on her back, and for the first time, she felt the ground beneath her was not shifting—but holding steady.
Chapter 8
Spring announced its approach with cautious tenderness—buds pushing through frostbitten soil, birds returning in quiet intervals, and the river below beginning to murmur beneath the thaw. The ashram shed its white stillness for wet earth and motion. With the road cleared again, a few visitors departed, while others arrived. Yet for Shreyashi and Kaustav, the shift in season mirrored a change already well underway. What had begun as silence and solitude was now a daily rhythm shared—meals, conversations, and the occasional shared poem left like breadcrumbs through their days. But there remained a line neither dared to cross—a reverence for the space that had allowed them both to breathe again, separately and yet side by side.
It was during a late afternoon session in the clinic that change came, quiet but resolute. A child, barely six, was brought in with high fever and tremors. Kaustav, though untrained, moved instinctively—gathering water, holding the child’s hand, calming the panicked mother while Shreyashi examined and soothed with practiced care. It was only hours later, after the crisis had passed and the boy was resting, that she turned to Kaustav and said, “You have healing in you. Even if you never studied medicine.” He looked at her, something long hidden flickering in his eyes. “And you have poetry in you. Even if you’ve never written a verse.”
That evening, the electricity went out—a not uncommon occurrence—and the ashram lit up with lanterns and firelight. A group gathered around the main fire for music and stories, and Kaustav was coaxed to read one of his poems aloud. At first he refused, awkward and withdrawn. But then he looked at Shreyashi, who simply nodded. That was enough. He stood, notebook in hand, voice low and unsure at first—but then stronger with each line. The poem was about shadows and second chances, about pain that didn’t leave but changed shape, and love that arrived like dew—unexpected, quiet, vital. When he sat down, there was silence. And then soft applause. Shreyashi didn’t clap. She just looked at him, eyes shining, a soft smile on her lips. He looked back, not with pride but with peace.
The days after were filled with a warmth that no longer needed hiding. They spoke more openly—of family, fears, failures. Kaustav told her about Anirban’s final days, and the guilt that had crushed his ability to write for nearly a year. Shreyashi spoke of her mother’s early death, the need to prove herself as a young doctor, and the toll it took when she forgot to live outside the operating theatre. They walked the riverbanks now, sometimes holding hands, sometimes letting go when words became too much. But there was no pretending anymore. Something had rooted between them—fragile, yes, but resilient in the way only late-blooming things can be.
One night, as they sat under the pine tree behind the east wing, Shreyashi said, “I’m not afraid anymore. Of being alone. Of being hurt. Of starting over.” Kaustav nodded, his hand resting lightly on hers. “I think we found each other in a place that asked nothing of us but honesty.” She looked at him then, fully. “And do you think that’s enough?” He didn’t answer. He leaned in, gently, hesitantly, and kissed her. It was not dramatic. Not a scene for a novel. But it was real. And in that quiet kiss beneath a sky full of returning stars, something long frozen within them both finally melted.
The next morning, the mountains looked different. Not because they had changed, but because Shreyashi had. She rose early, made tea, and sat at the steps of her cottage. Kaustav joined her, no words exchanged. Just the steam rising between them. A new silence. Not the kind born from wounds, but the kind shared by those who had healed—not fully, not forever—but enough to begin again.
And in the heart of the Himalayas, where snow gives way to bloom, a lotus opened—not with grandeur, but with grace.
Chapter 9
As the early spring deepened, the mountains around the ashram seemed to shift in tone—less like a white fortress and more like a living canvas of renewal. Melting snow revealed wildflowers crouched close to the ground, and the pine forest grew louder with birdsong. In this quiet blossoming, Kaustav and Shreyashi too began to unfurl into each other’s lives more deeply. They no longer needed excuses to linger; they read together, shared long silences with meaning, cooked simple meals, and often sat under their favorite pine tree, speaking softly as if afraid to disturb the spell that had woven itself between them.
One afternoon, while helping sort books in the library, Shreyashi stumbled across a dusty folder tied with silk ribbon. Inside were pages of unpublished poems, handwritten in Kaustav’s familiar style. She read them slowly, reverently. They were different—written before the grief, full of promise and sharp emotion. Later that evening, she returned them to him without a word, just a hand on his and a quiet look that said: I see all of you. Kaustav smiled, bittersweet. “Those were written in another life,” he said. “Then maybe it’s time to write the next one,” she replied. They both knew the words weren’t just about poetry. That night, Kaustav brought her a fresh notebook, embossed with a lotus. “For your verses,” he said. “Or your truths.”
As days passed, they began to discuss what lay beyond the ashram gates. “I can’t stay here forever,” Shreyashi admitted. “The world outside… it’s waiting. But I don’t want to go back as the same person who left.” Kaustav nodded. “Neither do I. I came here to vanish. Now, maybe, I want to return—not to what I was, but to who I can become.” There was fear in the idea of departure, but also a strange kind of courage. They both understood that healing in the mountains was one thing—carrying that peace into the chaos of life was another. Yet neither wanted to retreat anymore. One evening, as they stood watching the sun sink into the folds of the valley, Shreyashi asked, “What happens if we leave, and we lose this?” Kaustav’s reply was simple. “Then we find it again. Together.”
And so, a decision began to form—not dramatic, not sudden, but steady. They would leave the ashram together. Not to escape, but to return to the world on new terms. They made plans—modest, careful steps. Shreyashi would volunteer at a hilltop health center nearby, easing back into medicine. Kaustav would resume his poetry workshops in small towns, offering others what he had nearly lost. They would rent a cottage not far from the ashram—close enough to remember, far enough to begin. On their final evening, the ashram gathered for a farewell bonfire. Shreyashi, once silent and withdrawn, stood up and read a short piece she had written. It wasn’t polished, but it was hers. About finding light in unlikely places, and about the gift of being truly seen. There were tears, soft applause, and Kaustav, holding her hand quietly in the shadows.
When morning came, they packed few things—mostly notebooks, scarves, and memories. Shikha waved them off with a teary hug. “Come back,” she said. “Not because you’re lost again, but just to visit.” As they walked down the winding trail, Shreyashi glanced back at the ashram, nestled like a memory in the fold of the mountain. “I came here to heal,” she whispered. “And I came here to hide,” Kaustav added. Then, together: “But we’re leaving to live.”
Far below, in the waking valley, spring waited—not with fireworks, but with sunlight. A new chapter, like the first breath of dawn.
Chapter 10
The cottage was small, tucked into a clearing where sunlight pooled through pine branches and the sound of distant bells drifted on the breeze. Shreyashi and Kaustav moved in without ceremony—two suitcases, a stack of notebooks, and a quiet understanding. There were no grand declarations, no rush to define what they were. Instead, they created a rhythm: he wrote in the mornings, she walked to the health center, their paths converging in the warmth of shared meals and late-night tea. The world outside the ashram was louder, yes, and more unpredictable. But they had carried something from the mountains with them—a stillness that neither chaos nor memory could fully shake.
In the health center, Shreyashi began to rediscover her calling. Here, among village elders and young mothers, her knowledge was not a badge of success but a bridge to connection. She learned to listen differently—not just to symptoms, but to silences. Her first patient, a mute girl with a fractured wrist, reminded her of herself upon arriving at the ashram—hurt but not broken, quiet but full of story. With each person she treated, she felt her sense of purpose return—not as burden, but as offering. On the other side, Kaustav held poetry readings in town squares and libraries, often shy but always honest. People connected with his words because they weren’t polished—they were true.
Evenings were their sacred time. They would light a small lamp at the cottage altar, sometimes read aloud from each other’s work, sometimes just sit, letting silence drape around them like a shawl. There were disagreements, of course—Kaustav’s moments of withdrawal, Shreyashi’s instinct to fix rather than feel—but they always returned to the ground they had built in the mountains: respect, patience, and truth. One night, during a storm that cut electricity and forced them to huddle under blankets by candlelight, Shreyashi looked at him and said, “We were both broken.” Kaustav nodded. “But maybe we weren’t meant to be whole in the way the world defines it.” She smiled. “Just whole enough for each other.”
In early summer, they returned to the ashram—not because they had fallen again, but to offer gratitude. Shikha greeted them with laughter and warmth. Swami Nandadev simply said, “Ah, the lotus blooms where it chooses.” They stayed only a day, but in that short visit, they realized something powerful: they didn’t need the ashram to remember who they were becoming. That evening, as they sat by the same old pine, Kaustav handed her a folded page. It was a poem—titled A Lotus in Winter. She read it with tears in her eyes. It was not a love poem in the traditional sense. It was about survival. Stillness. Second chances. And finding light not after the darkness, but within it.
When they returned to their cottage, it no longer felt like a place they had chosen—it felt like a place that had chosen them. They hung the poem on the wall. Not framed. Just pinned, slightly crooked, like life itself. And every morning, before they parted ways for the day, they touched it once—like a quiet ritual, like remembering the frost that once threatened to silence them.
And so, in the heart of a waking world, two people who once ran from themselves now stood firmly, not because the past had vanished—but because they had grown roots strong enough to hold even through winter. The lotus, after all, does not fear the cold.
It simply waits.
And then it blooms.
End
