As we worked the nets, my gaze wandered up the river, where the water twisted around a bend and disappeared. There, I caught sight of something odd—a group of figures moving quickly along the bank, their clothes heavy with mud and desperation. I recognized them as soldiers, but not British—they wore the clothes of rebels, men who had fought against the Raj, who had refused to bow down. My heart quickened, an unbidden spark of respect flaring up within me. They were like us, surviving against all odds, fighting for a cause they believed in.
But then I saw the look in their eyes.
They moved closer, and I could see that these men were beyond exhaustion. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes haunted, their bodies caked in grime and blood. They were the kind of men who had nothing left to lose, who had been hunted like animals and had come to the edge of their endurance. And as they approached us, I felt a cold shiver of dread.
"Get down," Suraj whispered, pulling me behind a rock. But it was too late. The rebels spotted us, their gazes hardening as they saw our fishing nets, our sacks of rice. In that moment, we became something to be taken, something to be consumed in their desperate hunger for survival.
“Give us everything,” the leader demanded, his voice low and edged with a feral desperation. He pointed to the sacks of rice, to the thin broth we had brought for lunch, to the small knife that hung at Suraj’s side. I tried to speak, to tell them that we had little, that we were barely surviving ourselves, but the words stuck in my throat. My mind raced, torn between fear and the realization that we were about to lose everything, once again.
Suraj stepped forward, his hands raised, his voice calm. "Take what you need, brothers. We have no fight with you."
But the man’s eyes were wild, his desperation consuming him. He grabbed Suraj by the collar, yanking him forward, and before I could react, he drew a knife across Suraj's throat. The sound was sickening, a gurgling gasp as Suraj collapsed, his hands clutching his neck as his life spilled out onto the riverbank.
I screamed, lunging forward, but rough hands grabbed me, pulling me back, forcing me to my knees. I could feel the blade pressing against my own neck, the sharp sting of metal biting into my skin, and for a moment, I welcomed it. I thought of my family, of the life I had left behind, and I thought that perhaps, at last, this was the end.
But then, just as suddenly, they released me. The rebels tore through our belongings, taking what little we had, leaving only scraps in their wake. And as they turned to leave, one of them looked back, his gaze cold and empty.
"Live with it," he said, his voice a bitter sneer. "Live with knowing you couldn’t save him."
And then they were gone, disappearing into the trees, leaving me alone with the body of the only man who had shown me kindness, the only person who had given me a reason to keep going. I sank to the ground, my hands trembling as I reached for Suraj, my mind numb with shock. His eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing, his face frozen in an expression of calm acceptance. I wanted to scream, to tear at the earth, to rail against the heavens that had allowed this to happen. But all I could do was sit there, grief crushing me until I could barely breathe.
Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the river, and still, I sat there, unable to move, unable to think. I was alone, truly alone, in a world that had taken everything from me, a world that had shown me only cruelty.
A bitter thought crossed mind. Perhaps this was my punishment, my curse for choosing death, for abandoning my family, for betraying those who had fought so hard to keep me alive. Perhaps I was doomed to live, to carry the burden of my memories, my failures, my endless suffering, for as long as the river flowed, for as long as the sun rose and set.
I looked down at Suraj's face, his lifeless eyes staring back at me, and I knew that I would never find peace. Not in this life, not in any life. I was bound to this world, to this pain, to this endless cycle of loss and regret, and no matter how many times I tried to escape, it would always pull me back, dragging me down into the darkness.
And so, I stood up, my heart heavy with grief, my mind numb with despair, and I walked away from the river, from the body of the only friend I had ever known.
Again I survived. I lived.
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1783, 1784,...The years kept flowing like water. And it was the year 1792. Now I am 30 years old.
But what kind of life was it? One year bled into the next — 1783, 1784... And still, I kept on breathing, kept on walking through the world. But each year only seemed to drain me further, hollowing me out until I could barely remember what joy felt like.
The world around me changed slowly. New faces came and went, new lives began and ended, but nothing could touch the emptiness inside me. I was 30 years old now, in the year 1792, and I felt far older.
I thought of Suraj often. His face, lifeless, staring up at me from the riverbank — it was etched into my mind. And the sadness, the helplessness I felt then… it never left. Sometimes, in the silence of the night, I would whisper his name, hoping maybe he’d answer, but of course, there was only silence. I’d tried to make peace with it, to tell myself that I could move on, but it was a lie I told myself over and over, and one I could never truly believe.
It wasn't until much later, that something stirred within me again. I don't know when it happened. It was as if my heart, which had been shattered and cold for so long, suddenly decided to beat once more. A small ember of life was rekindled inside of me. I couldn’t name it, at first — this sensation of being drawn to something beyond the agony, beyond the memory of my parents and Suraj's lifeless body. I met someone — a stranger who saw something in me that I had almost forgotten. I hadn’t intended to speak to her. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in so long; I was used to passing by unnoticed, like a shadow. But she noticed me.
Her name was Anjali.
I had seen her occasionally, walking through the village with her mother or talking to the elders in the temple, but it wasn’t until that day, when the rain was so fierce that it soaked us both to the bone, that I felt something stir in me. I had been standing by the temple, seeking shelter, when she appeared, her figure emerging from the mist and rain. Her long black hair, now drenched, clung to her face, and her sari, once a vibrant red, was now darkened by the rain. Yet she walked with a grace that made it seem as though the world had paused for her. When she noticed me, she didn’t shy away, but her gaze lingered for just a second longer than was usual. It was enough.
she approached me, her dark eyes searching, as if she understood something about me that even I couldn’t grasp.
She didn’t ask why I was there or what I was waiting for, but after a long silence, she said something that caught me off guard.
“You look like you’ve been carrying a burden too heavy for one person,” she said, her voice soft. “Like you’ve been wandering for too long.”
I looked at her, unsure what to say. No one had ever looked at me that way before — like they could see past the layers of grief, past the years of silence and emptiness, to something real and broken underneath.
“I have,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know...”
She didn’t press me for answers, didn’t ask for my story. Instead, she simply nodded, her face full of a kind of quiet understanding.
“Sometimes, we carry things that were never meant to be ours alone,” she said. “Maybe it’s time you let someone help you with it.”
I didn’t know what to say and neither of us spoke for a long time. Time passed slowly and she did not press me for any answers rather she just gave a kind smile before going on her way. The rain had stopped quiet a while ago. Perhaps she waited, waited for me to answer her. But the coward I was, couldn't even say anything.
Her words lingered with me for a long time. In the days that followed, I found myself seeking her out, drawn to her in a way I couldn’t explain. She was different, willing to sit with me in my silence. Slowly, cautiously, I began to open up to her. She didn’t ask for much — only that I let myself be there, fully present, with her.
And somehow, in her presence, the years of loneliness and grief began to feel a little lighter. She showed me things I had long forgotten — the beauty of a sunrise, the peace of a still morning, the way laughter could chase away even the darkest of thoughts.
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I can’t say when it happened, but bit by bit, she became my anchor. She pulled me out of the numbness that had surrounded me for so long, teaching me how to feel again, how to breathe again. She didn’t heal me — I was still a man haunted by memories, by regrets that clung to me like scars. But she reminded me of something I had almost forgotten: that even in a life filled with loss, there could still be moments of warmth, of connection.
She would find me at the edge of the rice fields, gazing out at the horizon, or at the old well where I would collect water. She would walk up to me, unbidden, and stand in silence beside me. Sometimes she would talk about the world, about her dreams of leaving the village one day, escaping the confines of this place, just like I had longed to escape my own fate. She spoke of books she had read, of lands far away, of things I had never dared to hope for. She was full of life, a stark contrast to the hollow shell I had become.
One evening, as we stood together near the river bank, surrounded by the sounds of the waves, she asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks.
“Do you believe in hope?” she asked, her gaze steady on mine.
I hesitated. It was such a simple question, but I realized I didn’t know how to answer. Hope felt like something foreign to me, something fragile and impossible to hold onto.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’ve lost so much… I don’t know if I can believe in it.”
She didn’t respond right away, but I could see the sadness in her eyes. She reached out, taking my hand in hers, and I felt a warmth I hadn’t felt in years. She looked at me for a long time, her eyes searching, as if she could see the depth of the scars that marked my soul. She saw the weariness, the pain, the years I had spent in my own despair. But she didn’t look away. She didn’t recoil, as most people would. Instead, she nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if accepting me for what I was — a broken man.
“You’re here now,” she said. “You’re alive now. That’s something. It’s okay to be afraid,” she said softly. “But sometimes, all it takes is a small step forward. Just one step toward something better.”
Her words touched something deep within me. For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t dared to feel — a faint, fragile hope.
And so, slowly, I began to hope. I began to imagine a life where the weight I carried didn’t crush me, where the memories didn’t haunt me quite as deeply. I began to let myself feel, to let myself dream of a future, a future that included her.
I realized then that she had given me something I thought I’d never have again: a reason to live.
And then came the day when I finally told her. The words were clumsy, tumbling out of me before I could stop them. I didn’t know how to say it properly. I didn’t know how to make her understand that what I felt wasn’t just gratitude. It was more than that.
“I want to be with you,” I said, my voice trembling with fear, with hope, and with something deeper. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I... I want you. I want to live, Anjali. I want to live because of you. I want to live with you.”
For a long time, she didn’t say anything. She looked at me, the silence stretching between us, and her gaze seemed to dig deep into me. And then, finally, she smiled, a soft, bittersweet smile.
“I want you too,” she whispered. “I’ve wanted to feel that way too.”
And for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a reason to breathe. I felt like the weight that had crushed me for so long was lifting, bit by bit, and that maybe — just maybe — I could let myself have happiness again.
Days passed, and for the first time in my life I started dreaming, dreaming of a future with Anjali. Her laughter, her presence, even her quietness — all of it began to heal parts of me I thought would stay broken forever. We spent time exploring our village together, but in a way I’d never done before. Anjali saw beauty in the smallest things — the bright flowers along the roadside, the birdsong in the early morning, and the tiny fireflies that came out at night.
One evening, we sat by the river, watching as the sky turned shades of pink and orange. It was quiet, just the sound of water moving gently and the leaves rustling in the breeze. Anjali leaned her head on my shoulder, and I felt a calm settle over me. For the first time in so long, I felt at peace. I wasn’t thinking about the past, the regrets, or the people I’d lost. I was just there, with her, feeling safe.
After a while, she spoke softly. “One day, I’d love to travel,” she said, her voice filled with hope. “To see the world beyond this village. But I’d want you to come with me. Just the two of us, exploring everything out there.”
It felt like a promise, a glimpse into a life I’d never thought possible. I gently held her hand, feeling the joy.
"Of course we would. I will always be with you and follow you anywhere you go. Always"
She smiled. Her smile so bright, so beautiful that it made my heart beat so fast that it started to ache.
She leaned in closer to me, her face just inches from mine. My heart skipped a beat. Could I really have this? Could I be happy?
But before I could let my mind wander too far, Anjali took my face in her hands and pulled me into a kiss. It was clumsy — our noses bumped, and neither of us quite knew what we were doing — but it was perfect. The kiss was warm, soft, and so full of sweetness that I wished if it could last forever.
And in that messy, awkward, wonderful moment, everything felt right.
When we finally pulled apart, I looked at her, feeling this huge, ridiculous smile spread across my face. Before I could think better of it, I blurted out, “I want to marry you, Anjali.”
Her eyes went wide, and for a second I thought, Oh no, what have I done? But then she started laughing, this bright, bubbly laugh that made my heart feel like it was flying. She shook her head, still giggling, and said, “One kiss, and you are asking for my whole life?”
“Well, yes,” I replied, cheeks burning. “I want to keep you close, make sure no one else can steal you away.”
She smiled again, and she took my hand, her fingers rough but warm against mine, and nodded, her eyes filled with something I’d never seen before. “Then, yes.”
And there we were, laughing together like a couple of kids, by the river as the sun set, making promises that were messy, clumsy, and perfect in every way.
But the universe has a cruel sense of humor. I forgot the harsh truth; Happiness is always short-lived.
That night was supposed to be memorable for me, for her, in a happy way. But I was wrong. Fate had other plans.
The sky that night was especially darker, the air dry, as though even the earth itself knew something terrible was coming. After I blurted out my wish to marry Anjali, we were both laughing, her smile the only thing I saw. I couldn’t believe she’d said yes, that we’d have a life together. My heart felt full, a happiness I had never thought I’d have.
Not an hour later, I heard the distant rumble of horses, the shouts of men. My heart sank, and a sick feeling crept up inside me as I saw the shadows of soldiers moving through the village, their lanterns casting sharp, harsh light on everything they passed. They were searching for rebels, for any sign of defiance in our village. But we knew better, they did not need the reason to kill anyone, they did not come to search; they came to slaughter.
I found Anjali, her face pale as she stared at the scene, frozen with fear. Without thinking, I grabbed her hand, pulling her with me as we ran through the night. My only thought was to get her somewhere safe, to shield her from the danger. We darted through the narrow lanes, past the old banyan trees, our feet pounding against the earth as I led her through paths I knew well and finally towards the forest.
I whispered, “Just a little further. We’ll hide in the forest.” She nodded, clutching my hand tighter, her fingers trembling.
But then a shout cut through the air, stopping us in our tracks. I turned to see a soldier in the vast distance, his face obscured, but I could still feel the cold cruelty in his eyes. He raised his rifle, and before I could think, I put myself in front of Anjali, holding her back.
The shot reverberated through the night and a sharp, burning pain tore through my chest, stealing my breath. The shot had hit its mark. My knees buckled, and I fell, my vision blurring as I hit the ground.
Anjali screamed, and her hands were suddenly on me, shaking, trying to keep me upright. She was crying, pulling me up with what little strength she had. “Get up! Please, just get up!” Her voice was frantic, full of a desperation that broke my heart.
“Just go,” I tried to say, to push her away. But she wouldn’t leave. She knelt beside me, pressing her hands to my wound, her fingers slick with blood as she tried to stop the bleeding. “I can’t lose you, please…,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
I wanted to comfort her, to tell her not to be afraid, but the pain was too much, and my strength was leaving me fast. I could see flashes of the life we’d dared dreamed of just moments before—a quiet life by the river, her laughter filling our home. All of it was slipping through my fingers, vanishing into the darkness.
My vision faded, but I could still see her face, streaked with tears, her eyes wide and full of a helplessness that broke me. I wanted to tell her I loved her, that she would be okay, that she deserved the life we had wanted. But no words came.
A bitter thought crept in,, mocking me: the universe had lifted me high, given me a glimpse of happiness, only to snatch it away in the cruelest way. I had finally wanted to live—for her, for the life we could have shared. But now, all I had managed was to save her. And as I slipped away, I wondered if she would be able to live with the grief of my death. I knew all too well how heavy such sorrow could be.
I felt my heartbeat slowing, each breath more of a struggle than the last. But I held on to her hand, her warmth, to see her face. I saw her face, etched with pain, her lips moving though I couldn’t hear her words. I wanted to say something, to apologize for leaving her, for failing her, but the words never came.
The darkness took me then, merciless and cold, as the last thought crossed my mind—why now, when I had finally wanted to live? I had been lifted to the heights of joy, only to be cast down into the deepest sorrow.
I had always wanted to die, but just when I wanted to live, death came, stealing everything I had hoped for.