Some questions lived quietly for years.

Not because answers didn't exist.

Because people avoided them.

Carefully.

Deliberately.

Like touching something fragile.

Or dangerous.

Children asked questions innocently.

Adults answered carefully.

Sometimes lovingly.

Sometimes fearfully.

And sometimes-

not answering became an answer itself.

Krishni mathur had learned this long ago.

Because every important question she asked-

always ended the same way.

"Some answers come when time chooses."

She had hated those words at ten.

Hated them at fourteen.

Hated them now.

Because time kept choosing silence.

And silence-

could become very lonely.

"Maa."

"Hm?"

"Where are my blue files?"

"Study table."

"They're not."

"They are."

"They literally aren't."

"Check properly."

"I did."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"You never check properly."

"Maa-"

"Second drawer."

I opened the drawer.

Found the files.

Closed the drawer.

Silently.

Mothers.

Dangerous creatures.

"You found them?" Maa called.

"No."

"Krishu."

"Fine."

I walked toward the kitchen quietly.

She stood near the stove making breakfast.

Simple mornings.

Warm mornings.

The kind people forgot to appreciate.

I leaned quietly against the kitchen doorway.

Watching.

"Maa."

"Hm?"

"Can I ask something?"

"You already are."

"Maa."

She smiled softly.

"What happened?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Because suddenly-

the question felt heavier.

Older.

Familiar.

My fingers unconsciously touched the lotus mark resting against my palm.

Warm.

Always warm.

Always there.

"Maa."

"Hm?"

"Do you remember when I first asked about these?"

Something shifted.

Small.

Almost invisible.

But I noticed.

Always.

"Breakfast first," she said softly.

No.

Not again.

"Maa."

"Krishu-"

"No."

Silence.

Dangerous silence.

"I just want to know."

"You know what I always say."

"I know."

"Then?"

"I hate that answer."

A quiet smile touched her face.

Not amused.

Sad.

Somehow-

sad.

"Beta-"

"Maa please."

Silence stretched.

Heavy.

Breathing quietly.

Waiting.

Then slowly-

"You were five."

My heartbeat quietly stopped.

Five.

"You came running toward me crying."

I stared.

"Why?"

"You thought someone drew flowers on your hands while you slept."

My fingers tightened slowly.

"You kept trying to wash them away."

Something strange settled quietly inside my chest.

"You cried because they weren't disappearing."

I whispered quietly-

"I don't remember."

"You were very small."

Silence.

Then-

"You asked if Krishn put them there."

Something inside me quietly trembled.

"Did he?"

The question left softly.

Half joking.

Half not.

Maa became quiet.

Too quiet.

And suddenly-

I knew.

There was something.

Something she wasn't saying.

"Maa."

Nothing.

"Maa."

"Eat before college."

And there it was.

The wall.

Again.

Always.

I hated it.

I hated not knowing.

I hated feeling like everyone

understood something-

except me.

College felt louder today.

Too loud.

Too crowded.

Too everything.

The theatre hall buzzed with preparation.

Annual showcase pressure had officially destroyed everyone's peace.

Wonderful.

"KRISHNI!"

I closed my eyes immediately.

Ridhi.

Of course.

"You look emotionally unstable."

"Good morning."

"You slept badly."

"No."

"You thought deeply again."

"No."

"You overworked."

"No."

"You're lying."

"Possibly."

"Progress."

I smiled quietly.

Small.

Automatic.

Easy.

Ridhi always made things lighter.

Even when my mind felt unbearably heavy.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

Dangerous question.

"I'm fine."

"You say that too much."

Because if I stopped saying it-

what then?

"krishni."

"Hm."

"You know you don't always have to be strong."

The words settled strangely inside me.

Heavy.

Warm.

Uncomfortable.

Because strength became habit.

Even when tired.

Even when struggling.

Even when quietly falling apart.

Especially then.

The rehearsal stretched endlessly.

Scene corrections.

Blocking.

Lighting issues.

Missed cues.

Stress.

Beautiful.

Amazing.

Wonderful.

"Again," Professor Arvind said.

Collective suffering.

Visible suffering.

We repeated.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Hours passed slowly.

My concentration slipped constantly.

Dreams.

Lotus marks.

Maa's silence.

Everything sat heavily inside my head.

"Break ten minutes," Professor Arvind announced.

Finally.

I quietly walked backstage.

Dark curtains.

Soft silence.

The familiar smell of paint and old wood.

Comfort.

The theatre always understood me strangely.

Like it accepted broken pieces without asking questions.

I sat quietly.

Bag beside me.

Hands resting loosely against my lap.

My fingers slowly touched the lotus mark again.

Warm.

Always warm.

Why?

Why-

always?

The memory returned suddenly.

Sharp.

Unexpected.

Age nine.

School sports day.

"What's that?"

A girl staring.

My hands hidden immediately.

"Nothing."

"It looks weird."

Weird.

Age twelve.

Someone laughing quietly.

"Flower hands."

Age fifteen.

Questions.

Looks.

Curiosity.

Nothing cruel.

Nothing terrible.

Yet-

small things stayed.

People forgot words.

The person hearing them didn't.

Maybe that was why I hid them sometimes.

Long sleeves.

Closed palms.

Avoiding questions.

Not because I hated them.

Because I hated explaining.

A quiet breath left slowly.

Tired.

Always tired.

Wind moved softly.

Backstage curtains shifted gently.

And then-

The flute.

No.

No.

No-

Not here.

Not now.

The sound echoed quietly.

Beautiful.

Ancient.

Soft enough to doubt.

Clear enough to fear.

My breathing stopped.

The theatre suddenly felt colder.

Strangely colder.

The melody drifted softly beyond backstage corridors.

Calling.

Again.

Always calling.

My feet moved.

No.

I shouldn't.

I knew I shouldn't.

But somehow-

I always followed.

The corridor stretched quietly ahead.

Dark.

Silent.

Empty.

The sound grew stronger.

Closer.

Closer-

And suddenly-

A flash.

Not outside.

Inside.

Inside my mind.

River water.

Temple bells.

Blue.

Gold.

Flowers floating.

Ancient stone.

A peacock feather.

I froze completely.

No.

No.

No-

My hand immediately pressed against the wall.

Breathing uneven.

Heart racing violently.

Not real.

Not real.

Not real-

"Krishni?"

The voice shattered everything.

Ridhi.

Again.

Always Ridhi.

"You okay?!"

I blinked.

Reality returned slowly.

Hallway.

College.

Present.

Not dreams.

Not river water.

Reality.

"Krishni-"

"I'm okay."

"No you're not."

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

No.

No I wasn't.

Right?

Right?

That night-

sleep came unwillingly.

Heavy.

Uneasy.

Clouds covered the city quietly.

Rain threatened.

But never arrived.

I sat near my window.

Small Krishn murti resting near my table.

Soft yellow lamp glowing beside it.

Peace.

Always peace.

"Who am I?"

The whisper left quietly.

No answer.

Expected.

"What's happening to me?"

Silence.

My fingers slowly closed around my lotus mark.

Warm.

Always warm.

My eyes slowly closed.

Exhaustion heavier than thoughts.

Sleep arrived.

Slowly.

Quietly.

And then-

the dream.

Again.

Moonlight.

River.

Temple bells.

Flowers drifting softly through water.

The flute.

Closer.

Closer than before.

My feet moved carefully.

Ancient pathways.

Soft lamps glowing.

Wind carrying sandalwood fragrance.

And then-

something changed.

A child.

Small.

Standing near river water.

Looking down quietly.

Tiny hands.

Tiny fingers.

Lotus marks.

My breathing stopped.

No.

No-

The child slowly turned.

Me.

It was-

me.

Age five.

Standing there.

Waiting.

Alone.

And somewhere behind me-

a familiar voice.

Gentle.

Warm.

Ancient.

Patient.

"Not yet."

Darkness.

Silence.

And suddenly-

I woke.

4:28 AM.

Breathing uneven.

Heart racing.

Hands trembling.

Tears quietly resting against my eyes.

No.

No-

My fingers slowly touched my palms.

Lotus marks.

Warm.

Outside-

morning temple bells slowly echoed.

And somewhere-

hidden quietly between dreams and truth-

something ancient waited patiently.

For time.

For answers.

For me.

Thank u

Stay tuned

Gaura 🧿