The night was deep and still, the air outside heavy with the lingering scent of rain and earth. Inside Dhatri’s home, warmth clung to the air, laced with the rich aroma of crushed herbs and the faint smoke of smoldering wood. 

The village outside had long settled into quiet slumber, but here, within these four walls, the weight of years threatened to spill over. Pratibha sat rigidly at the wooden table, her fingers trembling as they traced the rim of an empty clay cup. 

Across from her, Dhatri waited — not with impatience, but with a stillness that felt both grounding and expectant. "You’ve come a long way," Dhatri said, her voice steady. "Tell me why." The words should have been simple. But for Pratibha, they weren’t. 

She had been asked this before — by doctors, by healers, by the few friends who still checked in on her. But no one had truly wanted the truth. Not the messy, painful truth that she carried in the deepest parts of her. 

She exhaled shakily, her hands curling into fists in her lap. "Because nothing else worked," she whispered. "Because I tried everything, and I don’t know what else to do." 

Dhatri tilted her head slightly. "Everything?" Pratibha let out a hollow laugh. "Yes," she said, bitterness lacing her tone. "Everything." 

"I was supposed to start my doctorate in theoretical physics," she began, her voice quieter now. "I worked for it for years. I studied while the world slept. I solved equations my classmates struggled with. I wanted to understand the universe, to unlock the secrets written in numbers and laws no one could see." Her throat tightened. 

"I got into the best university in the country. It was everything I had ever wanted." She inhaled sharply, her hands pressing against the table as if grounding herself. "But the night before my first day, I fell." Dhatri remained silent, waiting. "The first time, I thought it was just exhaustion," Pratibha continued. "Then I fell again. And again. My legs wouldn’t listen to me. It was as if they had decided they no longer belonged to me." She let out a shaky breath. 

"By morning, I was in a hospital bed. By the end of the week, I had a diagnosis — Multiple Sclerosis." Her fingers trembled as she stared at them. "I never even got to step into that university. I never even got to begin." 

Pratibha swallowed hard. "By then, I was already married." Dhatri’s eyes flickered with curiosity, but she didn’t interrupt. "I had a love marriage," Pratibha continued, her voice growing raw. " I fought for it — against my family, against their warnings. I thought I had found someone who would stand by me, no matter what." Her lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"But he started cheating. I caught him once, barely a year into our marriage. He promised it was a mistake, that it would never happen again. But it did. Over and over." She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "I forgave him. Every single time. Because that’s what love is, right? Forgiveness? That’s what I told myself." Her laughter died in her throat. 

"And then I got sick. And suddenly, he had more excuses. He worked late more often. His phone was always on silent. And when I was too weak to keep questioning him, he stopped even pretending." Dhatri’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her gaze—something that told Pratibha she understood more than she let on. 

"I still fought for him," Pratibha admitted, shaking her head. "Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when he didn’t deserve it. My in-laws hated me after the diagnosis," she whispered. "They said I tricked their son. That I hid my illness to trap him. As if I had asked for this." Her nails dug into her palms. 

"Then I got pregnant." Dhatri’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room felt heavier. "They were furious," Pratibha continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "They said I was selfish to keep the child, that my body was too weak to handle it. My husband repeated their words like they were his own. He told me I had no choice." Her breath hitched. 

"I begged him. I told him I could do it, that I wanted this baby. But no one listened. They forced me to end it." Dhatri’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. "And then," Pratibha said, her voice hollow, "they told him to take a mistress. To find a ‘healthy’ woman who could give them an heir. They had already picked someone." She let out a shuddering breath. 

"That was when I gave up. I signed the divorce papers and walked away. Not that it mattered." Her hands curled into her lap. "By then, I could barely walk at all." Pratibha exhaled shakily. "The disease didn’t stop with my legs. The medications — the steroids, the injections — they didn’t help. They destroyed my immune system. 

Every week, I was in the hospital fighting infections. I got weaker, not stronger." "When medicine failed me, people started whispering other cures." Her voice turned dull. "A famous Ayurveda doctor in another city. A healer in a temple. A priest who knew ancient rituals. A gemstone that could change fate. I tried everything."

Her eyes darkened. "I drank bitter concoctions until I vomited. I sat through ceremonies where people threw rice and chanted around me. I wore rings with stones meant to absorb my disease." She exhaled shakily. 

She forced herself to look at Dhatri. "Nothing worked. And yet, here I am, trying again." She swallowed hard looking down at her hands again, flexing her fingers as though testing them. "Then my hands started weakening. I couldn’t hold a pen. I couldn’t grip my own cup without trembling. The numbness started slowly — just tingling in my fingertips at first. But it spread."

Her breathing grew uneven. "Then came the double vision. It came and went, like a cruel trick my body was playing on me. Some days, I saw everything clearly. Other days, I couldn’t read a single word because the letters blurred into two."

She swallowed hard. "The worst was my mouth. I would wake up in the morning with tingling around my lips, my tongue feeling thick and foreign. My speech slowed, my words slurred. It was like my body was unraveling, piece by piece, and I could do nothing to stop it."

Dhatri watched her carefully, not speaking, just listening.

Pratibha’s face twisted in shame. "And then I lost control." Her voice wavered. "First, my bowel movements. Then my bladder. It started with accidents I told myself were nothing, but soon, I was too scared to leave my house. I couldn’t even control my own body anymore."

She gripped the chair, her knuckles white. "Do you know what it’s like to be a prisoner in your own skin? To be humiliated by something you can’t control?" Her voice cracked. "I do. And I hate it." 

Dhatri was silent for a moment, studying her carefully. Then, she asked, "What is the hardest part?" Pratibha frowned, caught off guard. "What?" "The hardest part about all of this," Dhatri repeated. "The thing that makes you feel the most helpless." 

Pratibha let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Everything. Not being able to do the simplest things. Not being able to walk to the door without help. Not even having the strength to carry my own weight." 

Dhatri nodded slowly, absorbing every word. Then, after a pause, she said gently, "Show me." Pratibha froze. "What?" "Show me what it feels like," Dhatri said. "Stand. Take a step. Let me see what your body is fighting against." 

Pratibha's throat tightened. She wanted to refuse — to tell Dhatri it was pointless — but something about the way she said it made her pause. There was no pity in her voice. No judgment. Only understanding. Only belief. 

For the first time in a long time, someone wasn't looking at her as though she were already lost. Swallowing hard, she reached for her walker. The metal clicked into place, loud in the still room. She gripped the handles and pulled herself up, her arms trembling with effort. 

Her first step was slow, unsteady. Her legs shook violently, the muscles burning from the strain. She dragged her left foot forward, then her right. Two steps. Then, her legs twisted awkwardly beneath her. 

The walker jerked sideways as she lost control, her body collapsing backward into the chair. The impact rattled through her bones, knocking the breath from her lungs. A moment of silence. Then, her chest heaved. The dam inside her broke. "I can't do this," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of years of pain. 

Tears slipped down her face, unrelenting. "I can't even take two steps. How am I supposed to live like this?" Her breath came in shallow gasps, a desperate attempt to hold back the tidal wave of grief threatening to drown her. But it was too much. The loss. The exhaustion. The humiliation. It all came crashing over her at once. 

Dhatri didn’t move to console her. She didn’t rush to offer meaningless reassurances. Instead, she crouched beside her, her presence solid, grounding. "You don’t have to get up today," she said softly, her voice calm but firm. Pratibha sucked in a sharp breath, her swollen eyes flickering toward her. Dhatri held her gaze. "But one day, you will." 

The words hit like a whisper of something she hadn’t dared to feel in years. Hope. And that hope broke her even more. A choked sob tore from her throat, then another, until she was unraveling completely. The emotions she had buried for years clawed their way out — loud, ugly, and unstoppable. 

"I feel so useless," she gasped between sobs. "I hate this. I hate myself. I hate that I need help for everything. I hate that I’m broken." Dhatri’s grip on her shoulder tightened slightly, grounding her. “You are not a burden,” she said firmly. 

“You’ve been carrying a mountain on your own for far too long. That’s not weakness, Pratibha. That’s survival.” Pratibha looked up, her tear-streaked face filled with doubt. “But what if I can’t survive this? What if I’m too broken?” 

Dhatri met her gaze, her voice steady and resolute. “You’re not broken. You’re hurt, and healing takes time. This isn’t the end of your story, Pratibha. It’s just the beginning.” Her words carried a weight that settled deep within Pratibha’s chest, pressing against the cracks of her despair. 

"You’ve been through more than anyone should have to bear," Dhatri continued, her voice gentler now, but no less certain. "But you haven’t given up. That matters." Pratibha’s lips quivered as she met Dhatri’s steady gaze. “It doesn’t feel like it matters,” she whispered. 

“It will,” Dhatri replied, her tone firm but kind. “You’ve made it here, Pratibha. That’s enough for now.” Pratibha let out a shuddering breath, the sobs quieting as her body stilled. She wasn’t sure if she believed Dhatri. Not yet. But for the first time in years, she wanted to. 

As the silence settled between them, Dhatri rose and walked toward the shelves that lined the wall. She picked up a small jar and returned to the table, placing it gently in front of Pratibha. “This will help you rest,” she said. 

Pratibha nodded, her hands trembling as she reached for the jar. Dhatri steadied her hands with a light touch. “Go slowly,” she said. “Your body needs time to adjust.” Pratibha blinked rapidly, her vision blurring with tears. 

“I don’t know if I can believe in healing anymore.” “You don’t have to,” Dhatri said softly. “Not yet. For now, just believe in this moment.” For so long, she had felt invisible. Not just to the world, but to herself. But in Dhatri’s words, in her steady presence, she felt something stir. She still wasn’t sure if she believed in healing. But for the first time in years, she believed in trying. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Author's Note: This chapter was one of the hardest ones I’ve ever written. It explores grief, self-worth, and the weight of carrying pain alone. I’ve known people who have fought silent battles, just like Pratibha, and I wanted to do justice to their resilience.

🌿 What part of this chapter resonated with you the most? Was it Pratibha’s breaking point? Dhatri’s unwavering belief in her? The quiet promise that healing takes time?

I would love to hear your thoughts. Your support, comments, and reflections mean the world to me. 💚 

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