prāṇācārya - (n.) Physician
━━━𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏.𓇢𓆸
❛. . .You might now be able to see them,
From where you are;
But look closely-
A candle flares from afar, yet...
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M I T H I L A, MATA GARGI'S ASHRAM
SAUDAMINI'S POV
Finally, the day was over, The world was asleep.
And I was alone. Finally alone.
The rain was tapping softly on the thatched roof, making a soothing sound. Everyone else was tucked in their beds, dreaming sweet dreams. But I couldn't sleep. Not yet. I was alone in my little hut, with only the soft glow of the oil lamp for company and It was in these quiet hours that I truly lived.
Here, within the confines of my small hut, I could finally peel off the mask of happiness I wore during the day.
I moved slowly towards my cot. There, on a wooden stool, lay the culprit of my unrest - My father's letter. My heart pounded in my chest as I hesitated. It was as if the letter held a tangible piece of the man who had shaped, or rather, misshaped my life.
Every fiber of my being wanted to ignore it, to pretend it didn't exist. But I knew I couldn't escape it forever. I had to face it, to respond.
I sank onto my cot, calming myself a bit, with trembling fingers, I picked up the letter. A single tear rolled down my cheek, as I felt so alone, so misunderstood.
"It's time," I whispered to myself.
My hand hovered over the quill, I started to feel suffocated. A part of me wanted to pour out everything, to lay bare my heart on the page. But another part of me shrank back, as a fear coiled in my stomach. What if my words were misunderstood?
But I had to start somewhere
I wanted to scream in order to unleash the tempest of frustration and anger that had been building for years. But I knew better. Words were like weapons, and I had to choose them carefully.
I took a deep breath, trying to still the trembling in my hand. I dipped the quill into the inkpot, with a shaky grip. The first words were the hardest. It felt like a huge step, it was like diving into a cold pool without knowing how deep it was.
"Dear Father," I began, my hand shaking slightly. The words felt foreign like an alien on the page. This formality feels like a lie,
“Due respect,” I wrote, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. Due respect? As if.
I paused, my mind racing. What to say? The usual greetings? The news about the princesses? No, not this time. This time, the words would be mine, raw and unfiltered.
I wanted to scream that I'm not a parrot, who is always expected to mimic the King’s daughters! I'm a person with dreams and aspirations of my own.
