Vaani:- "Ye kya kar rahe aap, hum gir jaayenge! Niche utaariye humein. Aan, put me down." In a surprise turn of events, she didn't even realised what she called him.
Aanvik:- "Don't ever call me that, only my family members are allowed to call me by...
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Slowly, I peeled my heavy eyelids apart, each movement revealing the sterile expanse of white walls that seemed to stretch endlessly, a clinical canvas against the backdrop of my disoriented awakening. The harsh glare of overhead lights pierced my consciousness, forcing me to squint and instinctively shield my eyes from the unforgiving radiance. Tentatively, I reopened them, blinking repeatedly to acclimate to the stark surroundings, each blink a hesitant step into the harsh reality that awaited.
A wave of disorientation washed over me, leaving me momentarily dazed, like a ship tossed amidst tumultuous waves. My mind struggled to gather its bearings, grappling with the heavy weight of the past 24 hours that crashed into my consciousness like an overwhelming force. Recent memories settled on my shoulders, their magnitude palpable, causing me to involuntarily swallow hard against the tangible discomfort coursing through me. The reality of my private struggles, laid bare for all to see, left me exposed and vulnerable in the cold, clinical embrace of the hospital room.
Since the tragic loss of my parents, I had navigated life's challenges in solitude, a lone figure grappling with the torment inflicted by my Chacha and the brutal consequences of raising my voice. The solitude during these harrowing times was stark, devoid of any comforting presence to tend to my wounds or offer solace. Reflecting on these painful memories only served to accentuate the isolation I had endured, leaving me feeling utterly alone in my struggles. The daunting question loomed before me—how could I summon the courage to speak up for my child when my voice had been met with silence and brutality in the past?
Surveying the room, my eyes fell upon Maa, peacefully slumbering on the couch—a beacon of tranquillity amidst the chaos that enveloped my life. Aanvik, engrossed in his work, occupied the space beside me. His presence was comforting and unsettling, a juxtaposition that added to the intricacies of my emotional landscape. A nervous lump formed in my throat as I struggled to articulate my needs, my trembling hands betraying my feeble attempts to grasp the glass of water by my bedside, resulting in its unintended shattering—a symphony of fragility in the sterile room.
Aanvik, alerted by the commotion, rose from his seat, and approached me with a mixture of concern and curiosity. I took a sharp intake of breath as I attempted to compose myself, whispering my request for water. I watched as he filled the glass and gently positioned it within reach, his tentative offer of assistance coupled with an understanding demeanor, eliciting a sense of fleeting relief amidst the turmoil that surrounded me.
"I want to go home," I whispered, hoping for compliance without further interrogation. Although accompanied by a sigh of resignation, Aanvik's prolonged silence and eventual acquiescence offered a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty. However, the doctor's subsequent refusal to discharge me only served to reignite my frustration and despair, leaving me grappling with the harsh reality of my predicament.
Caught between the desire to flee and the fear of facing the unknown, I found myself at a loss, uncertain of how to navigate the labyrinthine complexities of the Indian system. The prospect of involving the police, of reliving my trauma in excruciating detail, filled me with dread, amplifying the sense of isolation and despair that threatened to consume me.
