MY BLIND STICK

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, dancing shadows on the bedroom wall. A gentle warmth crept over my skin, a familiar sensation that usually signaled the start of a new day. But today, it was different. There was a sweetness to the air, a hint of something... unreal.

My eyes fluttered open, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I was in paradise. A beautiful woman, her hair a cascade of midnight, was nestled beside me, her breath soft against my neck. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile as she whispered, "Sleepyhead, it's time to wake up."

I slowly opened my eyes, blinking against the morning light that filtered through the curtains. There, lying beside me, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her smile was radiant, her eyes twinkling with affection as she touched my face, tracing the lines and curves with her delicate fingers.

"Still sleeping, lazybones?" she teased, her voice laced with a playful chide. "You should wake up early and look after yourself more. Honestly, if I wasn't here, you'd probably forget to even eat!"

I chuckled, the sound of her laughter mingling with mine. "Maybe you're right," I replied, feeling a warmth in my chest that only she could bring. Her fingers continued their soft caress, and for a moment, I felt as though time had stopped.

As I reached out to touch her face, to feel the smoothness of her skin beneath my fingertips, she began to fade. Her image wavered, and like a mirage in the desert, she dissolved into the morning light. My hand grasped at nothing but air. I was alone again.

The weight of reality settled over me like a cold blanket. It had been just another dream, another cruel trick of the mind that left me aching with a hollow sadness. I closed my eyes, trying to hold on to the remnants of her presence, but it was futile. She was gone, as she had been for years now. The bed felt emptier than ever, the space beside me a void that nothing could fill.

Just as I was sinking deeper into that melancholy, a small hand shook my shoulder, pulling me back to the present. "Daddy, wake up! Wake up, or I'll be late for school again!" The voice was sweet, though slightly wobbly, like a melody with a skipped note. I turned to see my daughter, Shreya, standing beside the bed. She was just five years old, with big, curious eyes and a mischievous smile that was so reminiscent of her mother.

I rubbed my eyes and managed a smile. "Alright, alright, I'm awake," I said, sitting up in bed. Shreya giggled and shook her head in mock disapproval. "Daddy, you really need to be more careful! See, I'm going to be late again!"

"Hmph, yes, yes, Mom," I teased, echoing her lecture with a playful tone. "I'll be more careful from now on."

She puffed out her chest proudly, trying to look serious despite the twinkle in her eyes. "You better be, or else!"

Despite the heaviness in my heart, I couldn't help but smile at her antics. Together, we went through the morning routine. I bathed her, combed her hair, and dressed her up in her school uniform, all while she kept up a steady stream of chatter. Every now and then, she would stutter, the words catching in her throat, but it never slowed her down. She was a force of nature, full of life and energy, and she kept me grounded, even on the darkest days.

As I prepared breakfast for her, she watched me with a critical eye, offering "advice" on how to make her toast just right. "Not too burnt, okay? And not too soft. It has to be just perfect!"

"Yes, yes, Mom," I said again, playing along.

After breakfast, I walked her to school, holding her tiny hand in mine. As we reached the gates, she turned to me with a serious expression that didn't quite match the sparkle in her eyes. "Okay, baby," she said, adopting the tone of a concerned parent. "Take care of yourself. Eat your lunch on time, alright?"

I chuckled softly and nodded. "Yes, Mom, I will. You take care too."

She gave me one last smile before running off to join her friends, her laughter ringing in the air. I stood there for a moment, watching her disappear into the crowd, my heart heavy but full. She was my anchor, my reason to keep going, even when the memories threatened to pull me under. And as I turned to leave, I couldn't help but whisper to the empty space beside me, "I'll take care of her. I promise."

After dropping Shreya off at school, I drove back home, the morning sun casting long shadows across the quiet streets. As I opened the door, Sophie was there waiting for me, her tail wagging furiously, eyes bright with anticipation. I knelt down beside her, running my fingers through her soft fur. "Hey, girl," I murmured, scratching behind her ears. "Missed me already?"

Sophie responded with a happy bark, leaning into my touch, her warmth a comfort against the lingering chill of the morning. I smiled, taking a moment to just be present with her before I stood up to tackle the day's chores. I moved through the house, tidying up the small messes that had accumulated, the mundane tasks grounding me in their simplicity. The quiet of the house was both soothing and a reminder of the emptiness that lingered in the corners.

After feeding Sophie, I settled onto the sofa with my laptop, opening it to start my work. The familiar hum of the machine was accompanied by the occasional tap of keys as I typed away, trying to focus on the tasks at hand. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Shreya, to the way she had chattered on this morning, her words tumbling out with that slight stutter that only made her more endearing.

She was growing up so fast, and every day it seemed like there was something new she was discovering about the world. My heart ached with the weight of responsibility, the knowledge that it was up to me to guide her, to teach her the values that would shape her into the person she would become. And yet, despite the challenges, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, knowing that I was doing my best to raise her right.

Sophie's eyes were on me, her head cocked to one side as if she could sense the turmoil of my thoughts. I glanced over at her and chuckled, reaching out to pat her head. "I know, I know," I said softly. "I haven't forgotten about you, too. I have your responsibilities as well." Sophie barked in agreement, her tail wagging even faster as she cuddled up against me, her warmth seeping into my side.

The moments of peace were fleeting, though. Soon enough, it was time to pick Shreya up from school. I stood up, closing the laptop and grabbing my keys. Sophie watched me go, her eyes following me with a quiet understanding. "I'll be back soon, Sophie," I promised, giving her one last scratch before heading out the door.

The drive to the school was short, and before long, I saw Shreya's bright face beaming as she spotted me from the school gates. She ran over to the car, her backpack bouncing on her shoulders, and climbed into the back seat with all the energy of a child who had just had the best day ever.

"Daddy, you won't believe it!" she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Today was so much fun! I made new friends, and we played this really cool game during recess!"

I glanced at her in the rear view mirror, my heart swelling with affection as I smiled back at her. "Oh? That sounds amazing! Tell me all about it."

And so she did. Her words came out in a joyful rush as she recounted every detail of her day, from the games they played to the stories they shared. I responded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, my heart lightened by her happiness.

But then her tone shifted, just slightly, as she added, "There was a new boy in our class today, too. He was kind of weird, though."

The smile faded from my face, though I kept my tone light. "Weird? What do you mean, Shreya?"

She hesitated, fiddling with the strap of her backpack. "Well, he had a broken leg, so he was walking with crutches. He looked... different. I didn't want to play with him, so I stayed away when he tried to talk to me."

Her words hit me like a blow to the chest, and I felt a sudden surge of anger rise up within me. I clenched the steering wheel, trying to keep my voice steady. "Shreya, what you just said... that's not right."

She blinked, clearly taken aback by the sharpness in my tone. "But... but he was weird, Daddy. He—"

"No," I interrupted, my voice firm. "He wasn't weird, Shreya. He's just like you and me. He's a person, and he deserves to be treated with kindness and respect, no matter what he looks like or what challenges he's facing."

Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at me, her lower lip trembling. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean to be mean..."

I sighed, the anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. I pulled the car over to the side of the road, turning to face her. "Shreya, I'm not angry because you made a mistake. I'm upset because I want you to understand something very important. Everyone has equal value, no matter what they look like or what they're going through. You shouldn't judge someone just because they're different. Instead, you should offer a helping hand, especially when someone is struggling."

She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I promise, Daddy, I won't do that again. I'll be nicer next time."

My heart softened, and I reached over to give her a side hug, pulling her close. "That's all I ask, sweetheart. It's okay to make mistakes, but it's important to learn from them. We all have our own battles to fight, and sometimes, just a little bit of kindness can make a huge difference."

She nodded against my shoulder, her tears gradually subsiding as I held her. "I understand, Daddy. I'll be better."

I kissed the top of her head, my heart aching with both sadness and pride. "That's my girl."

When we finally got home, Sophie was there to greet us, her tail wagging so hard that her whole body seemed to wiggle with joy. Shreya laughed as Sophie jumped up to her, licking her face in excitement. The two of them ran off together, their laughter echoing through the house as they disappeared into her room.

I stood there in the doorway for a moment, watching them with a mix of emotions. The sadness that lingered from the dream this morning, the joy of seeing my daughter growing into a kind and thoughtful person, and the weight of the responsibilities that I carried alone. But as I heard Shreya's laughter mingling with Sophie's happy barks, I couldn't help but smile.

They were my world, and as long as I had them, I knew I could face whatever challenges came our way.

As I walked towards my room, the familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot seemed to echo with distant voices—laughter, mockery, and jeering tones that sent a chill down my spine. The closer I got, the louder the noise became, until it drowned out the silence of the house entirely. I tried to shake it off, but my mind had already begun slipping into the past, pulling me back to a time I had long tried to forget.

There I was, a 15-year-old boy, walking home from school. My body, twisted slightly to one side from the scoliosis that had plagued me since childhood, felt heavy with the weight of the stares that followed me. From behind, I could hear the taunts and cruel laughter of my classmates.

"Hey, look at the hunchback!" one of them shouted, pointing at me as the others joined in, their laughter ringing in my ears.

I kept my head down, refusing to look back. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a painful reminder of how much I wished I could disappear. The whispers followed me all the way home, those pitiful eyes of strangers burning into my back. I could feel their gaze, their pity, their judgment. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the world around me, and broke into a run.

When I finally reached home, I stumbled inside, gasping for breath. My mother was there, waiting for me with a soft smile, as she always was.

"Abhinav, you're back! How was school today?" she asked, her voice warm and welcoming.

"School was fine, Ma," I replied, forcing a smile as I quickly made my way to my room. I could still hear the echoes of those voices, see the pity in their eyes, but I shoved it all down, refusing to let it show.

I changed into my regular clothes, trying to focus on the familiar routine. Homework, lunch—it was all a blur as I moved through the motions, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts that threatened to break through the surface.

In the evening, my friends called out to me from outside. "Hey, Abhinav! Come on, we're heading to the park. Let's play some cricket!"

I hesitated for a moment but then nodded. Maybe, just maybe, this would be different. Maybe the game would take my mind off everything else.

But as we started playing, it became clear that today wouldn't be any easier. I struggled to hit the ball, my timing off with every swing. The frustration was clear on my teammates' faces, while the opponents snickered from across the field.

"Don't get him out!" one of them sneered. "Let him waste the balls! It's not like he can hit them anyway."

My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I kept my head down, determined to keep playing despite the humiliation. The game ended, and I trudged back home, my heart heavy.

Inside, I saw my younger brother sitting on the floor, playing with his toys. "Hey, can you help me with something?" I asked, hoping for some company.

He didn't even look up. "Later. I'm busy."

"Please, it'll only take a minute—"

"I said I'm busy!" he snapped, his voice sharp. "Stop bothering me all the time!"

I flinched at the harshness in his tone. "I'm not bothering you," I muttered. "I just need help—"

He cut me off, frustration bubbling over. "Why can't you just do it yourself? You're always asking for help because you can't do anything right!"

His words stung, but before I could respond, he added, "Maybe if you didn't walk around all crooked, people wouldn't make fun of you all the time!"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I froze, the air sucked out of my lungs as the reality of his words settled in. He hadn't meant to hurt me, not really—but the damage was done. I stared at him, my mouth opening to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I turned away and walked back to my room, the weight of his words crushing me.

The cycle continued, day after day. I endured the bullying from classmates who mocked the way I walked, their cruel laughter echoing in my ears long after the school bell rang.

One day, as I tried to play cricket again, one of the boys from the opposing team sneered at me as I took my place at the crease. "Should I hit you with this bat?" he taunted. "Maybe then you'll walk straight instead of bending over like that."

The others burst out laughing, and I felt my hands shake as I gripped the bat. My friends—if I could even call them that—stood by, silent, as I was humiliated once again. I bit back the tears that threatened to spill, refusing to let them see how much their words hurt.

After the game, I went home, my chest tight with anger and sadness. I locked myself in the bathroom and sat on the cold tile floor, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I let the tears fall then, cursing my body, cursing the deformity that had made me a target for so much pain.

I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually, I heard a small knock on the door.

"Daddy?"

Shreya's voice pulled me out of the memories like a lifeline. I blinked, shaking my head as I tried to clear the fog from my mind. I was back in the present, standing in the hallway of my home, the voices of the past fading away.

"Daddy, you promised we'd go to the park today," Shreya said, her little hand tugging at my shirt. "Can we go now? Please?"

I looked down at her, her wide eyes filled with innocence, completely unaware of the storm that had just raged inside my mind. I forced a smile, one that I hoped looked more genuine than it felt.

"Of course, sweetheart," I said, kneeling down to be at her level. "Let's go to the park."

She beamed at me, her earlier promise to behave better still fresh in her mind. I ruffled her hair, feeling the last remnants of the past slip away as I focused on the present.

"Sophie!" Shreya called out, and our loyal dog came bounding into the hallway, wagging her tail in excitement.

Together, the three of us walked out the door, leaving the echoes of the past behind as we headed towards the park. Shreya skipped ahead, her laughter filling the air as Sophie trotted alongside her. I watched them, the warmth of the sun on my face, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself just be present.

The past had its hold on me, that much was clear. But as I watched Shreya and Sophie play together, I realized that it didn't have to define my future.

I watched Shreya and Sophie, their laughter a vibrant tapestry woven into the afternoon's quietude. A sense of peace washed over me, a fragile bloom amidst the barren landscape of my memories. Yet, a shadow lingered, a whisper of the past echoing in the corners of my mind.

Suddenly, a voice, soft as a summer breeze, brushed against my ear. "Isn't this a beautiful sight?" The words were spoken with a familiarity that sent a shiver down my spine. I spun around, searching for the source of the voice, but the park was empty save for us three.

And then I saw her, sitting beside me, her eyes closed in a serene slumber. Her presence was as ethereal as moonlight, casting an enchanting glow on the ordinary. Her lips curved into a gentle smile, and when her eyes finally opened, they held a depth of understanding that took my breath away.

"You're thinking about the past again, aren't you?" Her voice was a soothing balm to my troubled soul. "Didn't I tell you to let go?"

Tears welled up in my eyes, a silent testament to the ache in my heart, "I'm sorry," I said, my voice breaking slightly. "It's just... I miss you so much." I whispered, the words heavy with longing.

She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of my face. Her touch was as comforting as a mother's embrace. "You're doing well, Abhinav," she assured me, her voice filled with pride. "You're teaching her the values you hold dear, just as I hoped you would."

We sat in companionable silence, our gazes fixed on Shreya. The woman's eyes held a lifetime of wisdom, a silent acknowledgment of the journey I had undertaken.

"Do you remember that day?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of melancholy.

"How could I forget?" I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

Time seemed to stand still as the scene shifted, transforming the vibrant park into a monochromatic canvas of the past. I was twenty-two, a young man burdened by the weight of his deformity. The same bench, the same park, but a lifetime of pain separated the two moments.

The park was a vibrant tapestry of life that afternoon. Elderly people, graceful in their movements, practiced yoga with serene concentration, their gentle laughter blending harmoniously with the rhythmic sounds of their stretches. Children dashed around with boundless energy, their gleeful shouts piercing the air as they played tag and chased each other with infectious excitement. Couples strolled hand-in-hand, engaged in quiet, loving conversations, their presence adding a tender layer of intimacy to the lively atmosphere.

Amidst this vibrant tableau, I sat alone, a solitary figure lost in contemplation.

My mind was a chaotic labyrinth, filled with the intricate puzzles of data science. Numbers and algorithms danced in my head, a dizzying waltz of possibilities and pitfalls. The project deadline loomed large, a looming shadow casting an ominous pall over my thoughts.

Then, a soft rustling noise interrupted my reverie. I looked up to see a woman approaching, her movements guided by a walking stick. She was about my age, and though she was blind, her presence was striking. Her beauty, reminiscent of a Shakespearean heroine, had a grace that defied her condition. Her features, though unseen, radiated an ethereal elegance that captivated me.

She sat beside me on the bench, her stick tapping lightly against the ground. I cast a quick glance her way, then returned to my internal struggle. The silence between us grew, marked only by the distant sounds of the park.

Finally, her voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm having trouble finding my way out of the park. The noise makes it difficult for me to navigate. If you wouldn't mind, could you show me the way out when you leave?"

I looked at her, my mind still clouded by my own issues. "Of course," I managed to reply, though my tone carried the weight of my distraction.

She offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you. I'd like to stay here a little longer if that's alright. When you're ready to leave, I'll go with you."

Her words hung in the air, a silent request for companionship. I hesitated, my mind still caught in the whirlwind of numbers and codes. But something about her quiet demeanor drew me in, a magnetic pull that I couldn't resist.

I sat on the bench, occasionally glancing at the woman beside me. She was smiling, her face lit up by the vibrant sounds and energy of the park. Despite her blindness, she seemed to be soaking in the atmosphere, her expression reflecting the joy around us. I couldn't help but admire how her eyes, though unable to see, seemed to convey a deep, unspoken understanding.

My own thoughts grew more disjointed as I watched her. Her presence, so calm and serene, was both comforting and disorienting. I struggled to refocus on my worries when she suddenly spoke, her voice gentle yet tinged with concern.

"Are you alright? You seem to be in stress."

I looked at her, momentarily taken aback, and replied, "Yes, I'm fine," trying to sound more assured than I felt.

She turned her head slightly in my direction, a small smile on her lips. "My senses tell me when someone is not entirely honest. Your mind is far away," she said, her voice filled with a quiet certainty. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, but know that you're not alone."

I met her gaze for a moment before looking away, feeling a pang of discomfort at her perceptiveness. The silence grew, filled only by the lively park sounds.

When I finally stood up, I told her, "I'm heading out now."

She extended her hand towards me. I took it, noting how soft and warm it felt against mine. I guided her out of the park, navigating through the crowd. Her touch was reassuring, and I could feel her gratitude in the gentle pressure of her hand.

As we reached the park's edge, she gave me a bright smile. "Thank you."

I nodded, expressionless. "Hmm, it's fine."

With that, I turned and began walking away. I glanced back once to see her still standing there, smiling, her presence lingering in the distance as I made my way home.

The park was once again a canvas of life, a symphony of colors and sounds. I returned to my usual spot, the familiar bench offering a solitary respite. It was then that the same woman from yesterday approached, her steps guided by the familiar tap of her walking stick. This time, her smile was even broader, a reflection of an inner cheerfulness that contrasted starkly with my own mood.

Her face was alight with a cheerful enthusiasm that was infectious. "Hiiii!" she greeted me, her voice a melody in the morning air. The unexpected warmth in her greeting caught me off guard.

I managed a subdued, "Hello," my tone barely lifting.

Undeterred by my indifference, she continued, "I forgot to tell you my name yesterday. It's Rimjhim." Her voice held a playful lilt.

I looked at her briefly, my disinterest evident. "I'm Abhinav."

Her smile widened, a radiant beacon in the dull canvas of my world. It was a smile that could light up the darkest corners, a stark contrast to the shadows that clung to me. There was something about her expression that made my heart skip a beat. I immediately turned my gaze away.

She launched into a conversation, her voice a lively stream of consciousness. "So, Abhinav, how's your day going so far?"

"Same as usual," I replied flatly, trying to refocus on my own thoughts.

Rimjhim seemed undeterred, her energy unwavering. "You know, I've always thought parks are the best place to clear your mind. What do you usually think about when you're here?"

I shrugged, my response curt. "Not much."

She laughed again, a sound that felt like a warm breeze. "Oh, come on! You must have something on your mind. You can't be all that quiet!"

I retreated into myself, building a wall around my emotions. Her cheerful demeanor was a stark contrast to the storm raging within me. Yet, there was a strange pull towards her, an inexplicable connection that defied logic.

Despite my dry replies, Rimjhim continued to engage, her questions and comments flowing with an infectious enthusiasm.

The park had become a predictable stage for a recurring drama. Each afternoon, Rimjhim would arrive with her characteristic brightness and settle beside me. She, with her infectious laughter and unwavering optimism, was a constant in the ever-changing tableau of my life.

Her greetings were always punctuated by a bright smile, and her cheerful "Hiiii!". I would respond with a subdued "Hello," and then offer terse replies to her attempts at conversation. No matter how indifferent or disengaged I was, her smile never faltered. It was as if her optimism was a wellspring that refused to run dry, regardless of the resistance she met.

Conversations, if they could be called that, were one-sided affairs. She would babble about anything and everything, her voice a cheerful melody in the otherwise silent expanse of my mind. I would offer monosyllabic replies, my words as sparse as desert rain.

"Did you see that funny dog chasing its tail yesterday?" she'd ask with a sparkle in her voice. "I swear, it was like a circus out there!"

"Not really," I'd reply, my tone flat.

She'd laugh, undeterred. "Oh, well, I guess you were too busy to notice. How about this weather? Isn't it perfect for a walk?"

"Maybe," I'd say, barely lifting my gaze.

Despite my minimal responses, Rimjhim persisted with her animated stories and cheerful observations. "I heard a great joke today. Want to hear it?" she'd ask, her eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"Sure," I'd mumble, though my enthusiasm was evidently lacking.

Her laughter was a constant, warming sound amidst my own silence. Each day, as I listened to her recount the small joys and observations of her life, her smile remained unwavering, a testament to her unyielding spirit. Her resilience was as remarkable as her blindness. Where most would have given up, she thrived, finding joy in the simplest of things. And I, in my solitude, watched her, a silent observer of her unwavering spirit.

The park bench, usually a source of quiet solace, felt strangely empty that day. Where was Rimjhim? The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the soft hues of dusk, and yet, she was nowhere to be seen. A growing sense of sadness and guilt began to gnaw at me. I cursed myself for not having shown more interest in our conversations, regretting my missed opportunity to connect. The park, once lively and full of warmth, now felt cold and distant. The usual rhythm of the afternoon had been disrupted, leaving a void in its wake.

Was I secretly… looking forward to our conversations? The thought sent a jolt through me. Why should I care if this daily routine ended? Yet, the prospect of it vanishing filled me with a curious sadness.

Just as I was about to leave, defeated by my own negativity, I spotted Rimjhim approaching. She made her way toward me, her stick tapping rhythmically on the ground. The dimming light cast a gentle glow on her, making her presence even more striking.

"Abhinav?"

She sat down beside me. The sight of her, even amidst the fading light, seemed to chase away the shadows that had been clinging to me.

"Why do you look so down?" she asked, her voice gentle.

The question caught me off guard. Was it that obvious? I turned to her, trying to mask my feelings. "N-nothing," I stammered.

She saw right through me. A knowing smile stretched across her lips. "Oh, come on," she teased, her tone playful. "So, you were waiting for me after all?"

My face burned with embarrassment. "It's not like that," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her laughter, a warm melody in the gathering darkness, filled the air. It was the most beautiful sound I had heard in a long time, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had been raging within me. Seeing her so carefree and joyful, her smile bright and genuine, was a moment of profound beauty. It was as if the entire world had condensed into that singular, luminous smile of hers. The way she laughed, unburdened and full of life, made my heart skip a beat. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen, As I watched her laugh, her vibrant joy a beacon in the twilight, a strange realization dawned upon me. Perhaps, just perhaps, this daily routine wasn't so bad after all. Perhaps, it was something I… craved.

I looked at Rimjhim, a question forming in my mind. "Rimjhim, why do you always come here?"

Her smile remained warm and serene as she replied, "Because this place is filled with joy, laughter, love, and peace. I come here to soak up all of it. The environment and the surroundings are so beautiful in their own way."

I couldn't help but tease her. "But you can't see any of it, can you?"

With a playful twinkle in her eye, she responded, "Mr. Abhinav, I can see more than anyone." Her tone was light, her smile infectious.

Her words left me both shocked and deeply touched. I found myself smiling, moved by her perspective and the warmth she radiated. In that moment, it was as if she had opened a window to a world I had never fully appreciated, showing me that beauty could be perceived in ways beyond mere sight.

A gentle smile graced her lips as she observed my reaction to her earlier comment. "You should smile more often," she remarked, her voice carrying a warmth that was both unexpected and comforting. "You look good when you do."

Her words hung in the air, a curious blend of observation and compliment. I found myself returning her gaze, my face feeling strangely warm.

As the days turned into weeks, our interactions became a familiar rhythm. Rimjhim's curiosity seemed boundless, and our conversation flowed more freely than before. She would ask, I would answer, my responses gradually shifting from curt monosyllables to more elaborate sentences. The park had become a shared space, a silent testament to the evolving bond between us.

One evening, as we were leaving the park, I felt an unusual urge to protect her. The fading daylight cast long shadows, and the park took on an eerie quietude.

"Be careful. It's getting dark," I found myself saying, my voice laced with a concern I hadn't realized I possessed.

She turned to face me, a soft smile playing on her lips. "It's always dark for me," she said, her voice carrying a hint of melancholy.

Her words struck me with a force that took me by surprise. In that moment, I saw her not just as a cheerful companion, but as a woman enduring a silent battle.

One day, as we strolled through the park, Rimjhim's excitement was palpable. "Tell me about yourself," she said, her voice filled with genuine curiosity. "What kind of stories do you have to tell?"

I hesitated, my mind racing. What was there to tell? A life devoid of color, a story written in shades of gray. "I don't really have anything interesting to tell." I muttered, my voice barely audible.

Her eyes widened with surprise. "But how can someone live and have nothing to share? It seems like you're missing out on something."

I looked away, my voice tinged with resignation. "It feels like I'm barely existing, and I'm aware of it. Sometimes I wonder what's really left of me."

Rimjhim's face fell into a concerned expression. Her silence spoke volumes, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of empathy in her eyes. It was a moment of unspoken understanding between us, a bridge of shared human experience that connected our otherwise disparate worlds.

As Rimjhim reached out for my hand, I offered it to her, our fingers meeting in a gentle clasp. "Abhinav," she said softly, "you should live your life more fully. There's always something worth living for. I read this quote in a book once: 'I can see the sun, and even if I cannot see the sun, I know it exists. And to know that the sun is there, that is living.'"

Her words struck a chord deep within me, and I couldn't help but ask, "You read books?"

"Yes," she replied with a smile that I could feel in her voice. "I love reading books. They've always been my window to the world, a way for me to experience things I've never seen."

Rimjhim continued, her tone becoming more earnest. "Books have taught me a lot, but one of the most important lessons I've learned is about the value of life. Abhinav, it's so important to live each moment fully. Life is fleeting, and we don't always have control over what happens, but we can choose how we live in each moment. Even in darkness, even when the sun seems hidden, it's there, just like the potential for happiness and fulfillment in our lives. We just have to acknowledge it and embrace it."

I simply replied with a quiet, "Hmm," the weight of her words sinking in as we continued walking.

The rain began to fall, catching us both by surprise. We got drenched, but neither of us minded. Rimjhim continued to talk animatedly, her voice carrying a warmth that cut through the chill of the rain. I listened, captivated by her presence despite the downpour.

Rimjhim shared her story, her voice steady despite the rain. "I was born blind," she began. "My parents didn't want me, and when I was very young, they left me at an orphanage. Since then, I've been alone. The caretakers there were my only family. They taught me to smile through everything, to face daily challenges with a positive outlook."

She paused, her voice softening. "I do smile, but I've always kept myself reserved. I never really involved myself with others. But when I met you, I felt that you were struggling with your own darkness. I wanted to help, even if it's just a little. I'm glad to be here with you now."

The rain continued to pour, mingling with the emotions that surged within me. Despite her own struggles, Rimjhim's kindness and resilience shone brightly. Her desire to reach out and help, even in the face of her own difficulties, was a profound reminder of the human capacity for empathy and connection.

Listening to Rimjhim's words, I felt a sudden stillness. I stood there, rooted to the spot, as she continued walking in the rain. Her voice had been a revelation, and it stirred something within me. I spoke in a slow, almost hesitant voice, "I had a dream."

Rimjhim stopped and turned to face me. Her curiosity was evident as she listened intently. I took a deep breath and continued, "Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a cricketer. Cricket was everything to me. Every time I picked up a bat, I felt like I was holding a piece of my future."

"When I was nine, I asked my parents if I could join a cricket academy. My father said he'd think about it if I scored well in academics. So I worked hard, and when I got my result card for class 6, I was thrilled to show them. I'd scored 90% and came second in my class."

I paused, a shadow crossing my face. "But my father said I had to be first to get into the academy. The next year, I studied even harder. I came home, beaming with joy, and told them I was now first in my class."

Rimjhim listened with a mix of empathy and curiosity. "That's when my parents finally agreed. They let me join the cricket academy. I was so excited. My coaches were impressed with my batting skills. They praised my wristwork and how well I gripped the bat."

I sighed, remembering the enthusiasm I had once felt. "But then, things started to change. Within six months, I began to experience back pains—sometimes they were sharp and noticeable, other times not so much. The joy I once felt was overshadowed by these pains. It was as if my dream was slipping through my fingers, despite how hard I tried."

Rimjhim stood silently, absorbing my words. The rain continued to fall around us, but her presence felt like a warm refuge amidst the storm of my memories.

As I stood there, memories began to flood back, and I found myself lost in a particular moment from my past. The scene shifted in my mind to when I was 12 years old. I could see myself running, but something wasn't right. There were other children running behind me, their laughter echoing in my ears.

"Look at the way he's running!" one of them shouted. "Yeah, that's so weird!" another chimed in. They were all laughing at me, at the way I moved, at the posture that had always set me apart.

The laughter stung, but what came next hurt even more. I remembered how, after that day, my coach called my parents in for a meeting. "I think you should take him for a check-up," the coach had said, concern evident in his voice. "There's something wrong with his back."

My parents took me to the doctor, and after several tests and examinations, the diagnosis was clear—I had scoliosis, a condition that was worsening with time. The doctor's words still echoed in my mind: "He shouldn't play cricket professionally. Occasionally, for fun, maybe. But not at the level he dreams of."

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. My dream, the one I had nurtured with every ounce of my being, was suddenly out of reach. I was devastated, shattered by the weight of a reality I wasn't prepared to face.

I came back to the present, standing in the rain with Rimjhim. The cold raindrops mixed with the warmth of those painful memories, but somehow, her presence made them more bearable.

Rimjhim approached me slowly, her hand gently reaching for my back as if she could feel the invisible weight I carried there. Her fingers brushed against the curve of my spine, and she asked softly, "So you have scoliosis? Must've been really tough, isn't it?"

I forced a smile, trying to sound indifferent. "No, it's fine. It's not painful."

But Rimjhim didn't let me hide behind my words. She responded with a wisdom that cut through my defenses. "I wasn't talking about the physical pain."

Her words hit me hard, and I looked at her, shock and sadness mingling in my eyes. She wasn't seeing the curve in my back; she was seeing the curve in my life, the twist that had pulled me away from my dreams and left me stranded in a place I didn't belong.

"I know," she continued, her voice soft but sure, "and I understand how it feels to be treated as different."

As she spoke, her words seemed to pull me back into my memories, each one a painful reminder of the ridicule I had endured.

"Look at him, how weird is he!"

I could hear the cruel laughter of my classmates, see the way they pointed at me as I walked down the school corridor, my posture making me an easy target for their jokes.

"He'll never be normal, not with that back."

My relatives' whispers echoed in my ears, their pitying looks following me everywhere I went, as if my condition was the only thing they could see.

"You're not really going to try out for the team, are you? With your... condition?"

The voices of my so-called friends, their words laced with disbelief and mockery, as if my dreams were laughable just because my body didn't fit their idea of normal.

While these memories surged through my mind, Rimjhim continued speaking, her voice a calming contrast to the harshness of the past. "Life has a way of making us feel like outsiders, doesn't it? But the truth is, those differences—they don't make us less. They make us unique. They give us a story worth telling."

"He'll never fit in. Just look at him."

The voices from my past tried to drown out her words, but there was something about the way Rimjhim spoke that made me want to believe her. Even as I heard those cruel echoes of the past, her presence beside me, her unwavering belief in my worth, began to soothe the ache those memories had left behind.

I found myself thinking, maybe she was right. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as broken as I'd always felt. Maybe the cracks in my life didn't have to define me. Maybe, with her by my side, I could start to see myself the way she saw me—someone worth more than just his flaws.

But as Rimjhim continued to talk about life, the voices from my past kept clashing with her words, each memory a stark reminder of the battle I fought every day, the battle to believe that I could be more than the sum of my scars.

As if sensing my turmoil, Rimjhim's voice softened even more. "You know, Abhinav, it's not about what others think of you. It's about what you think of yourself. And from what I've seen, there's so much more to you than what you've been through."

Her words were like a lifeline, pulling me out of the whirlpool of my thoughts. I looked at her, truly looked at her, and for the first time, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope.

Hope that maybe, with Rimjhim by my side, I could start to heal from the wounds the world had inflicted on me. Hope that maybe I could find a way to live, not just exist, despite everything I had been through.

And in that moment, standing there with Rimjhim, I realized that maybe I didn't have to fight this battle alone anymore.

Rimjhim stepped closer, wrapping her arms around me in a warm embrace. I could feel the sincerity in her touch, the kind of hug that didn't just offer comfort, but a lifeline.

"You know," she whispered softly, "a wise person once said that sometimes, all someone needs is a hug—a warm embrace that can pull them out of the darkness they're trapped in."

I couldn't help but chuckle at her words, the heaviness in my chest lightening just a bit. "And who is this wise person, by the way?" I asked, playing along.

Rimjhim pulled back slightly, a playful smile lighting up her face. She paused for dramatic effect, then with a twinkle in her eye, she said, "Rimjhim."

We both burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the park, mingling with the rustling leaves and distant chatter. In that moment, the weight of my worries seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of her presence and the simplicity of shared laughter.

As I watched Rimjhim walk away that evening, a strange sensation tugged at my heart—something warm, something soft, something I'd never felt before. It wasn't just her laughter that echoed in my mind, but the way her presence lingered like a quiet melody, bringing with it a comfort I didn't know I craved.

I asked myself the question—Is this love?

The next day, I brought a book to the park, a place that had become a regular meeting spot for Rimjhim and me. As we sat down on the bench, I carefully pulled the book out of my bag. Rimjhim's curiosity was piqued, and she tilted her head slightly towards me.

"Do you love reading books too?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine interest.

I nodded, trying to keep my tone casual. "Yeah, I do, but I think the shopkeeper might've robbed me this time. There isn't a single word written in this one."

She raised an eyebrow, her hand reaching out. "Let me see that."

I handed her the book, and she ran her fingers over the pages. Almost immediately, her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Abhinav," she began playfully, "it says here in the description… Hmm…"

"What does it say?" I asked, feigning confusion.

"It says… stupid people can't read this book."

I couldn't help but chuckle, trying to hide the smile that was threatening to break free. But Rimjhim caught on, and she laughed heartily, the sound light and contagious. I joined in, our laughter echoing through the park, blending with the rustling leaves and distant chatter of others around us.

In that moment, her laughter felt like a small victory, a sign that maybe.... maybe, I was beginning to understand the joy she found in life's simplest pleasures.

The days rolled by, and with each passing one, our conversations became longer, deeper, and more intimate. We no longer needed words to fill the silence; just being near each other was enough. Rimjhim had become the light that brightened my once dim life, without even trying.

She'd often tease me about exercising, making it clear that if I didn't, she would somehow know. "I'll observe your progress," she'd say, her playful tone breaking through her usual calmness.

I laughed, always retorting, "But you can't see! How would you even know?"

Without missing a beat, Rimjhim would smile that knowing smile of hers and say, "Abhinav, I can see more than you." And like always, we'd laugh, our connection deepening with each shared moment.

Every morning, I would start with exercises to help my scoliosis, something I hadn't thought of doing with such discipline before. But for her, I did. Rimjhim had a way of motivating me without force—her encouragement was gentle yet powerful. I could feel her presence with me, even when she wasn't physically there. Her words echoed in my mind, guiding me as I took the steps toward bettering myself, both physically and emotionally.

And then there were the afternoons and evenings, where we'd meet and talk. Not once did I feel the urge to confess what had blossomed in my heart through words—there was no need. Neither of us had spoken directly about love, but it was there, written in the silence between our conversations, in the laughter we shared, in the way our hands brushed against each other as we walked through the park.

Our bond was built on something beyond words—a silent understanding, a deep connection that didn't require confessions. Rimjhim had become my light, my motivation, and I, in turn, had become hers. We were bound not by declarations, but by actions, by the unspoken knowledge that we were, in fact, head over heels for each other.

Everything was going perfectly. The difference between who I was before her and who I became after her was striking. My back, although not completely healed, was slowly and steadily improving. So too was my personality, transforming under the influence of her presence. Rimjhim's smile was like a miracle—one that could bring the dead to life. Two years passed, and I found myself a job as a data scientist. Life, it seemed, was finally on track again.

One day, as Rimjhim and I walked together, our hands naturally found each other. The warmth of her touch was a comfort I had grown accustomed to, yet it still sent a thrill through me. I stopped, turning to face her, my heart pounding with the weight of what I was about to say.

"Rimjhim," I began, my voice trembling slightly, "do you know that you've made me realize the true worth of life? You've shown me what love really is."

She tilted her head, her usual bright smile playing on her lips, though there was a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

I took a deep breath and continued, "I'm terrible at remembering the routes, you know? I tend to lose my way a lot. So, Rimjhim… will you be my blind stick?"

For a moment, silence hung between us. Then, I saw her expression change. She was remembering, I could tell—those cruel words from the past, the doubts people had thrown at her like stones.

"You're blind. There's no life for people like us,"

"People like us can't go anywhere. We're different. We have to be dependent on others,"

"No one will ever love you, they'll only pity you."

And now, those very words were melting away, untrue, as she stood before me with tears brimming in her eyes. For the first time, I saw her cry. Gently, she let go of her stick, letting it fall to the ground as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, holding me tightly.

"Yes, Abhinav," she whispered into my ear, her voice thick with emotion, "I will."

In that moment, I knew what true love was—a bond that needed no words, no grand declarations, just a deep, unwavering understanding that was felt rather than heard. I held her close, feeling her heart beat against mine, and whispered back, "You've taught me that love isn't about seeing the world; it's about feeling it. And with you, Rimjhim, I've felt everything."

And together, we stood there, the world around us fading into the background, knowing that our love was something that could never be broken.

After Rimjhim and I got married, life became a whirlwind of happiness and playful banter. We were inseparable, spending entire days just talking to each other. I would often tease her in public, and every time, she would blush, looking down with a shy smile that made my heart race.

One day, while driving home, I passed by a pet shop and something caught my eye—a young but big female dog. There was something about her, a calmness that drew me in. I stopped the car and went inside to inquire about her. I found out that she had a little pup with her, and without hesitation, I decided to adopt both of them.

On our way back home, the mother dog kept staring at me, her eyes full of curiosity and trust. I smiled at her, reaching over to gently caress her fur. "Listen," I said, almost in a whisper, "I have a wife who can't see. I want you to take care of her when I'm not around, okay? Don't ever let her feel lonely." The dog barked softly in response, as if understanding every word I said, and I couldn't help but smile wider.

As soon as we got home, Rimjhim was greeted by the enthusiastic pups. They jumped on her, licking her hands and making her laugh—a sound that was music to my ears. "Where did you find these two?" she asked, her voice bright with surprise.

"I picked them up on my way back," I replied. "They're part of the family now."

She knelt down, gently feeling the dogs with her hands, her fingers brushing over their soft fur. After a moment, she smiled and said, "The mother's name will be Snoopy, and the little one… Sophie." The dogs seemed to approve, barking and wagging their tails.

Just like that, our little family grew by two.

One evening, we were sitting on the sofa, Rimjhim nestled comfortably in my arms. She was murmuring something under her breath, a soft tune that I could barely catch. I leaned in closer and asked, "Sing a little louder for me?"

She hesitated for a moment but then started singing—

In the silence, I felt a hand,

Guiding me through the unseen land,

I didn't need eyes to see,

That you were meant for me.

In the darkness, I found you,

In the quiet, our love grew,

Though my eyes may never see,

In your heart, I found me.

You spoke in whispers, soft and kind,

The only light in my mind,

With every word, you painted skies,

In your voice, I realized.

In the darkness, I found you,

In the quiet, our love grew,

Though my eyes may never see,

In your heart, I found me.

I don't need to see the light,

To know your love, it's shining bright,

Every moment that we're near,

You make the world so clear.

In the darkness, I found you,

In the quiet, our love grew,

Though my eyes may never see,

In your heart, I found me.

In your heart, I found me,

In your love, I am free.

When she finished, there was a moment of silence. I looked into her eyes, even though I knew she couldn't see me, and then, without thinking, I leaned in and kissed her.

This kiss was different—more than just a kiss. It felt like the world had stopped, like time had paused just for us. It was slow, tender, and full of all the unspoken words that had been building up inside me. My heart raced as I held her close, feeling the softness of her lips against mine, the warmth of her breath, the way she responded to every little movement. It was as if in that moment, our souls were speaking to each other, saying things that words could never express.

When we finally pulled away, I kept my forehead against hers, eyes closed, just soaking in the moment. She smiled, and I could feel her happiness, her love, radiating towards me like the sun breaking through the clouds. "I love you," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"I love you too," she replied softly, and then she kissed me again, and in that kiss, I knew—this was where I belonged, this was home.

I later underwent a scoliosis surgery. During my recovery from scoliosis surgery, Rimjhim became my anchor, my guiding light in the truest sense. She was always there, her presence was so gentle yet so firm, making sure I was comfortable, that I had everything I needed. It was as if her blindness vanished, replaced by a sixth sense that allowed her to see more clearly than anyone else. I would often find myself resting in her lap, her delicate fingers running through my hair, soothing the pain away. In those moments, I felt like a child again, safe and loved, enveloped by her warmth.

One day, as I lay there, half-asleep, I heard her soft voice. "Abhinav, do you know how much I love you?" she asked, her tone tender, almost as if she was speaking to our future. I smiled, not opening my eyes, just listening. "You make it easy," I whispered back.

She chuckled softly, and I could feel her lean down to press a kiss on my forehead. "You make it worth it," she replied, her words sinking deep into my heart.

Time passed in this blissful rhythm, each day a gift. Then, one evening, Rimjhim took my hand, her grip firm yet trembling. I looked at her, sensing something was different. She took a deep breath, her smile radiant, but her eyes glistening with tears.

"Abhinav," she began, her voice a little shaky, "I have something to tell you."

My heart skipped a beat. "What is it, Rimjhim?" I asked, gently squeezing her hand.

She placed my hand on her stomach, and I could feel the faintest hint of a bump. "We're going to have a baby," she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion.

For a moment, I couldn't speak. Tears welled up in my eyes as I pulled her close, holding her tightly. "A baby," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "Rimjhim, this is... this is the best news I've ever heard."

She laughed through her tears, and we stayed like that, wrapped in each other, our hearts beating in sync, filled with a joy that words could never truly capture.

Months later, when our daughter Shreya was born, it was like witnessing a miracle. She was the spitting image of Rimjhim, with her delicate features and a smile that could light up the darkest room. As I held her in my arms for the first time, I looked at Rimjhim, who was resting after the delivery. She was exhausted, but her face radiated a peaceful happiness.

"She's beautiful, just like her mother," I whispered, placing Shreya gently in Rimjhim's arms. Rimjhim smiled, her fingers tracing our daughter's tiny features, her sightless eyes filled with love.

"Abhinav," she said softly, "I want her to have everything, to know how much she's loved. We will show her the world, even if I can't see it myself."

I kissed Rimjhim's forehead, my heart swelling with a love so profound, it felt like it would burst. "We will. Together, we will give her the best life possible."

In that moment, with my family in my arms, I realized that life had given me everything I had ever wanted and more. My back might not be completely healed, but my heart was whole, filled with the love of a woman who had taught me the true meaning of life.

Everything once felt like heaven. We had built a world filled with love and laughter, with Rimjhim as the heart of our little family. Life was perfect in its simplicity, and every day was a gift. Yet, fate had other plans.

One fateful day, while I was at work, Rimjhim, Snoopy, and Sophie went out for their usual evening walk. The tranquility of those moments was shattered when a reckless driver lost control, hitting Rimjhim. Snoopy and Sophie, loyal and brave, tried to save her but were powerless against the force of the accident. Snoopy died alongside Rimjhim, leaving Sophie wounded but alive. When I received the news, my world crumbled. The image of Rimjhim and Snoopy's lifeless bodies was too much to bear. My heart felt like it was being torn apart. I wanted to scream, to exact vengeance on the driver who had stolen my everything, but all I could do was collapse in despair.

The void left by Rimjhim's absence was unbearable. Sophie, now a shadow of her former self, refused to eat and seemed to lose all will to live. I sat beside her, broken and pleading. "Sophie," I whispered through my tears, "Shreya is the only one I have left. Please, be there for her. I can't lose you too."

As if touched by my plea, Sophie slowly began to recover, finding a new purpose in caring for Shreya. I focused all my energy on ensuring that Rimjhim's teachings and love continued to guide our daughter. Each day was a struggle, but I persisted for Shreya's sake.

Now, as I stood at dusk, Shreya and Sophie approached me, both tired but content. The memories of Rimjhim came flooding back, and my eyes welled with tears. I patted their heads and forced a smile, trying to stay strong for Shreya. As I moved, a vision of Rimjhim appeared before me, her face bathed in a gentle, ethereal glow.

"Looks like you've lost your way again," she said softly, a teasing smile on her lips. "Give me your hand. I'll guide you, just like always."

I extended my hand to her, feeling the warmth of her touch as if she were really there. As we walked together, her presence provided a comfort I hadn't known I needed. The realization dawned on me: the one who was truly blind was me. Rimjhim had always been my guiding stick, leading me through the darkness.

The next day, Shreya came home from school with a bright smile. She excitedly told me about her new friend, a boy with a broken leg, and how they had become fast friends. Her happiness was a balm to my wounded soul. I beamed with pride, patting her head and telling her how proud I was of her kindness.

Later, as I prepared for bed, I took out the book I had once given to Rimjhim. I settled onto the bed, feeling the presence of her spirit beside me. As I opened the book, I felt her gentle, comforting presence, as if she was reading alongside me. The sense of peace that enveloped me was profound, and I found solace in the quiet moments shared with her.

As I drifted off to sleep, I rested my head on the imagined lap of Rimjhim's spirit, feeling a connection that transcended time and space. Her love and guidance had always been a part of me, and in that final, serene moment, I understood that she would forever be my guiding light, even in the darkest of times.