Chapter 41: He Forgot the World, But Not Me

After some time, our car finally got repaired, but we didn’t continue towards Osho Family Dhaba. My father told us to wait at a nearby dhaba as they had already left from there. So, we stopped and decided to wait.

But honestly, that 30-minute wait felt like a never-ending year.

My eyes were fixed on the road, desperately searching for their car.

And then—finally—my wait ended.

Their car arrived.

I rushed toward it and opened the door. Raman was sitting inside, with a strange emptiness and fear in his eyes. From the other side, his father got in and hugged him—forcefully.

I stood still, just waiting for my turn. And when Raman turned his face toward me... he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

He was seated in the middle of the back seat. I sat beside him—on his left—while his father was on his right. I gently hugged him.

He leaned closer and whispered in my ear,

“Rabia... sab khatam ho gaya.”

A soft smile formed on my face.

I replied calmly,

“Kuch bhi khatam nahi hua... sab theek hai. Don’t worry.”

He rested his head in my lap and just kept looking into my eyes.

For me, this was something beyond words—an emotion I had never felt before.

That same Raman... who had forgotten everything,

who wasn’t speaking to anyone,

who wasn’t recognizing even his own family...

He called me by my name.

Even if his words were filled with fear and despair,

just being remembered by him was everything to me.

That’s what true love is...

---

Reflection

There are moments in life when time seems to stop—not because of fear, but because of the intensity of love. That day, amidst confusion, memory loss, and fear, Raman remembered me.

Not as a wife.

Not as someone from the past.

But as his Rabia—the one who mattered when nothing else made sense.

It reminded me that true love doesn’t fade with memory, illness, or time. It stays in the soul.

And even when the world slips away…

Love remembers.

Chapter 40: The Miracle at 4:48

The clock was ticking.
And that tick-tick-tick… it was the only sound I could hear—louder than the people around me, louder than my own breath.

At 4:48 PM, the phone rang.

We all froze.
It was my sister-in-law's phone. We stared at the screen…
Raman’s number.

Oh God! Finally… finally we had a trace!

Just as his phone switched on, police were able to track his live location.
Then a man answered the call from Raman’s number and said,
“There’s someone sitting by the riverside near Osho Family Dhaba, Sangrur… He looks lost, blank. I found this phone lying beside him.”

We begged him to switch to video call.

And then…
There he was.
Raman.

Sitting by the river. Silent. Disoriented.
His eyes didn’t blink.
But he was there.
Alive.

Tears blurred my vision.
My heart folded in gratitude.
God had shown mercy. He approved our love.

I called my brother immediately. He said he and the police were already on the way to that location.
I couldn’t wait.

I ran downstairs screaming, “Bring the car! I’m going! Raman has been found!”

A cousin pulled his car out immediately. I, my father-in-law, and the cousin got in and drove towards Sangrur.
I was crying and praying non-stop.

Midway, my CEO called. When I told him everything, he contacted SSP Sangrur on our behalf.
Minutes later, I got a call from the SSP himself.
He assured me, “We’re reaching the location. Don’t worry. He’ll be safe with us.”

Just as hope began to settle in…

A dog suddenly ran across our path.

The car hit it.
The dog died on the spot.
We didn’t stop—we were in a hurry that didn’t allow mourning.
But the car wasn’t spared either.
It was badly damaged.

When we were barely minutes away from Sangrur… the engine gave up.
Our car broke down.

And while we were stuck, helplessly trying to fix it, my father, brother, brother-in-law, and the SSP team reached the location.

I received a video call from my brother.
He slowly turned the camera toward him…

It was Raman.

But not the Raman I knew.
This Raman looked…
Frightened. Blank. Lost.
His eyes didn’t register familiarity.
He wasn’t recognizing anyone.

My heart shattered again—but this time with relief.
He was alive.
And for now… that was enough.

---

Reflection – When Heaven Blinks

There are moments in life when time doesn’t move—it waits.
At 4:48 PM, heaven blinked, and mercy poured in.

That phone call didn’t just track Raman’s location—it tracked back my soul from an abyss.
Love was tested.
Faith was challenged.
But in that one moment of divine grace, everything we had prayed for came back to us—beaten, broken, and bleeding hope… but alive.

Chapter 39: A Race Against Time

On the 19th, in desperation and hope, I visited an astrologer in Ludhiana.
He looked at me, then closed his eyes, and said, “Raman is still alive… but in deep depression. He’s wandering the roads, unaware of his surroundings. You’ll find him within the next 28 hours. If not—he may be lost forever.”

His words pierced through the fog of uncertainty.
I clung to the hope.
I chose to ignore the second half of his sentence because my heart wouldn’t allow it. I refused to believe that Raman could be lost forever.
We will meet again, I told myself.
No matter how far he’s gone. No matter how long it takes.

The entire day I kept searching, praying, and believing that tomorrow would bring Raman back to me.

On the morning of 20th March, Mukul tugged at my dupatta and asked, “Mumma, when will Papa come? I want to meet him. I’m missing him.”
I knelt down, kissed his forehead, and said with full confidence,
“Today we’ll go together to meet your Papa.”

As I was getting ready to head out with Mukul, my father received a phone call from the police station.
They informed him that a dead body had been found… and the description matched Raman.

My father didn’t tell me.
Instead, he quietly discussed it with my father-in-law.
And his response?
Cold. Emotionless.
“Let’s have breakfast first, then we’ll go to the police station.”

How could someone respond like that?

All this while, the school maids who had become like family were around, trying to support us.
One maid sat beside me and softly fed me bites of food.
“Mam, if you won’t eat, who will search for Raman sir? Please eat something. You need strength—for Mukul and for the investigation.”
Her words were like balm to my shattered soul.

We finally left for the police station.
Mukul, my father, my father-in-law, and I.
Upon reaching, the ASP addressed only the men and said they should go to the Murda Ghar to identify the body.

So my father, father-in-law, my brother-in-law, and brothers left—while I stood there, trembling, trying to hold Mukul close.
I brought him back to the school residence.

My heart was on fire.
I screamed out loud, “Don’t waste your time identifying that body! It’s not Raman! HE IS ALIVE. He has to be…!”

And then — the phone rang.

It was my brother.
He said what I was already sure of:
“You were right, it’s not Raman’s body.”

A wave of relief washed over me. But the race wasn’t over yet.
According to the astrologer’s prediction, if we didn’t find Raman by 5:00 PM, he may be lost forever.

It was 4:43 PM.
My heart was skipping beats.
My eyes glued to the phone.
My hands trembling.
Every second felt like an eternity.

---

Reflection – Time Doesn't Just Tick, It Screams

Some days aren't measured in hours or minutes — they're measured in breaths you almost forget to take, in promises you force the universe to keep.
I believed beyond logic, beyond reason, and beyond fear.
I believed because love — real love — doesn’t allow you to give up.
Not at 4:43.
Not ever.

Chapter 38: When Fear Became Louder Than Love

 

I was wandering on roads with school staff, my brother, my cousins, our friends — everyone I could count on. Raman’s family had also been informed, and they arrived in Ludhiana by 9:00 pm. Mukul came along with them. He asked for his father, and I lied to him: “Papa is in an important meeting.”

That one sentence shattered me inside.

We went to the police station to lodge an FIR. Afterward, we returned to the school residence. My brothers and cousins began searching every nook and corner of Ludhiana.

What kept breaking me were the endless, unanswered questions.
What happened to Raman? Why did he leave so suddenly? What was going on in his mind?
And amid all this — the casual attitude of my in-laws, especially my father-in-law, felt like betrayal.

The next morning, police came with Raman's call records. It showed his last outgoing call was made to his mother, just moments before he left the school.
I couldn’t believe it. I asked her, trembling, “What was Raman talking about?”
She said, “We called him to inform we are coming to Ludhiana.”

And right there, I broke.
That very morning, Raman had told me with fear in his eyes and pain in his voice:
“Please ask mummy papa not to come today. I’m not comfortable. I won’t be able to face them here.”
I had conveyed exactly this to his parents — every word.
And yet, they still chose to call him, not me.

It was clear to me — Raman left the campus because of that call.
Because of that fear.
Because of the one thing he wasn’t ready to deal with: his father.

Meanwhile, police circulated Raman’s photo and details across Ludhiana. Our CEO stepped in, applying political pressure to speed up the search.
We shared his information on every platform — WhatsApp, Facebook, Instagram. People started calling, showing concern and offering help. My colleagues stood strong beside me, searching day and night.

March 19 passed... still no trace. No clue. No answer.
What stabbed me repeatedly was the indifference of Raman's father.
He sat in the residence calmly. Met the police once. And then… nothing.
No panic.
No movement.
No emotion.
Like he was simply on vacation.
Like none of this mattered.

---

Reflection – The Storm Before the Stillness

That day broke a part of me I’ve never been able to repair.
It wasn't just that Raman disappeared — it was how easily the world around him moved on.
How the people closest to him failed to read his silence, failed to hold space for his fear.
I was screaming inside, but the ones who should’ve listened were too wrapped in their own egos, agendas, and pride.

Sometimes it’s not fate that breaks a person — it’s the coldness of those they loved the most.

Chapter 37: The Vanishing

 

The bell had rung. But what stood behind the door wasn’t Raman.

It was the transport officer from Raman’s school.

I stood frozen. My face must have lost all colour.

He said, “Ma’am… Raman sir left the office about 15 minutes ago, saying he was going upstairs to the residence… We thought he was with you.”

The words stabbed through my chest.

I couldn’t respond. I just stood there, numb.

My breath caught, my heart skipped a beat. I knew. I don’t know how, but I knew…

He was gone.

Gone from the building, maybe even from this world.

I grabbed my phone with trembling hands and dialed his number. No answer. I dialed again. And again.

I ran downstairs, barefoot, not even caring who saw me. I rushed to the gatekeepers.

"Sir gaya the building round pe... par abhi tak wapas nahi aaye," they said.

He had gone to inspect the building around 20–25 minutes ago. But no one had seen him return.

I sprinted out onto the road, looking in all directions, eyes scanning every face in the distance, every possible street corner where he might have gone. But there was no sign of Raman.

He had disappeared.

Panic tightened its grip around my chest. My breaths became shorter, heavier.

I called my sister-in-law, barely able to speak. “Raman’s missing…”

She paused, then said, “Mummy-papa are already on the way to Ludhiana.”

I kept trying Raman’s number. Still no answer.

Then, after a while…

Switched off.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. I knew his battery had been low. I kept telling myself, Maybe it’s just that. Maybe it’s just the battery.

But somewhere inside, hope began to slip away.

Soon after, I got a call from Rimpy, my brother’s close friend, who was working as a carpenter at the school.

“Didi, please come back to the school house. We’ll search together.”

I rushed back.

With Rimpy and a few others, we searched the campus—every room, every corridor, every empty corner. We checked the CCTV footage.

It showed Raman leaving the campus gate…
At exactly 3:16 PM.
The same time I had last seen him talking to his senior from the rooftop.

That one frame in the footage felt like a punch to my chest.

I fell to my knees.

My eyes stared at the frozen screen, but my mind was screaming.

Why did I go inside? Why didn’t I run down just five minutes earlier? Why didn’t I hold him tight and never let him out of my sight?

I kept praying.
I kept cursing myself.

Somewhere deep in my soul, I began to feel the truth I didn’t want to believe.

---

Reflection:

There are moments in life that don't feel real—like time freezes and your breath becomes hollow. That day, every second stretched into a lifetime.

In those moments, I was not Rabia the wife, not the professional, not the mother—I was just a soul desperately trying to hold on to a love slipping like sand through trembling fingers.

3:16 PM.

I will never forget that time.

Because that’s when my world shifted.

Chapter 36: The Bell That Changed Everything

As I heard the words of Raman's brother-in-law echo in my head—“Don’t leave him alone”—I immediately called Raman’s parents.

I explained the situation, told them about his sleepless nights, his withdrawn behavior, his sudden lack of confidence. I said we were coming home and needed support.

But instead of concern, my father-in-law began shouting.
"You’ll lose your jobs with this kind of attitude!" he barked. “Don’t panic. Just get back to your routine. If Raman isn’t well, let him take a day off. Don’t create drama!”

I was speechless.

How could someone be so dismissive? I knew in that moment that I couldn’t count on him for emotional support—not now, not ever.

I hung up, told Raman, “We’re going to see your doctor in Moga. I don’t care what anyone says.”
Raman quietly agreed. We got dressed and left.

On the way to Moga, we received a call from his mother. She said that his father was also coming to meet us there. Surprisingly, Raman seemed glad.

We met outside the hospital. As usual, Raman went in with his father. I waited in the car, praying silently.

When they returned, Raman said everything was fine. “The doctor gave me some medicine,” he said calmly. No trace of what was really going on. I couldn’t read his face.

We stepped outside. I asked Papa to sit in the car so we could return home together. But he brushed me off.

“No, I’m going back to Ferozepur. You two go ahead. We’ll meet on the weekend. Bye.”

Just like that.
No conversation. No concern. Not a single word about Raman’s condition.

I stood still, looking at Raman… and at the overnight bag I had packed in case we stayed with family. Raman didn’t say a word. He just gestured for me to sit in the car, and we headed back to Ludhiana.

He drove slowly, quietly. His hands on the wheel were steady, but I could feel the storm inside him. I softly asked, “We don’t have to go back. We can take a break. Let’s go somewhere—anywhere.”

He was silent for a while, then said, “Let’s just go back home.”

We reached Ludhiana. He lay down for a while, but sleep didn’t come. The scary night began again—restlessness, pacing, his mind racing with invisible thoughts. He slept for only a few minutes.

The next morning, I told him to stay home. But he said there was an important school function and he had to go.

I decided I wasn’t going to office either. I called Raman and told him, “I’ll be home all day. Call me if you need anything. I’ll help you with your work too.”
He smiled faintly and said, “I’m okay now.”

But I wasn’t convinced. I secretly called 2–3 of his colleagues and requested them to keep an eye on him. “If anything seems off,” I told them, “please call me immediately.”

That day, Raman skipped his medicine.
“I don’t need them anymore,” he said.
It was supposed to be the last day of his treatment.

At 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the rooftop, looking down. Raman was in the school ground, talking to a senior. Just then, I received a call from his sister, asking about his health. I went inside while speaking to her.

Fifteen minutes later, I changed my clothes. Raman’s office hours were about to end at 3:30 p.m., and I thought I’d go downstairs to accompany him home.

Just then…
The doorbell rang.

I smiled, assuming it was Raman.

But when I opened the door…
I froze.

My heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t him.

---

Reflection:

Sometimes, life gives you subtle warnings… and sometimes, it rings a bell that shakes your entire world. That moment—the doorbell, the stillness, the shock—is etched in my soul.

People often talk about storms before the calm. But sometimes, the calm before the storm is the most terrifying of all.

I wish someone had understood earlier… that mental health is not about laziness or weakness. It’s a silent scream that needs listening ears, not dismissive voices.

That day, I felt it—something irreversible was about to happen.

---

Chapter 35: When the Sleepless Nights Began

Raman’s medical reports were finally showing full recovery. His creatinine levels were normal, cholesterol was under control, and his kidney was responding well. The doctor smiled while handing over the latest reports and said, “Now we’ll just observe for six months. No more treatment—just some multivitamins.”

We were almost at the finish line. Only a week of medication was left, and we could finally say the nightmare was behind us.

But then, suddenly, something changed.

Raman stopped sleeping.

He began behaving strangely—overthinking, overworking, obsessing over files and approvals. He would check the same papers again and again, as if expecting to catch some hidden error. Even his interest in his phone, social media, and evening strolls with me faded.

I was silently observing all this, assuming it was his way of processing happiness—maybe he was just trying to focus more seriously on work after such a long break. But deep inside, I was worried.

One day, we received a call from his brother-in-law—he was coming to visit us the next day. We were both glad. But that night, Raman didn’t sleep at all. Not a minute. There was no physical tiredness, no yawning, no dizziness. His mind was consumed with stress over some financial discrepancies in the office files.

I tried to comfort him and told him to talk to the CEO directly if something had gone wrong. But he kept repeating, “What if I missed something? What if this becomes a problem later?” It was as if his confidence had disappeared overnight.

Nothing I said could bring him back. His eyes looked restless, his thoughts scattered. I called his doctor and explained the situation. The doctor suspected it could be a result of sleep deprivation and prescribed a mild sedative.

His brother-in-law arrived. Raman explained everything to him—his work stress, his fear of mistakes. Then, he took the medicine. I watched him finally fall asleep.

I sighed in relief.

But it didn’t last long. Raman woke up within an hour, wide-eyed. The sedative had barely touched his mind. Still, we stayed up talking that night—a real conversation after a long, long time.

But what I saw in those hours shook me more than anything.

He wasn’t just anxious about work. He was scared… of many things. Of expectations. Of failure. Of judgment. And among those fears, I sensed something unspoken—his fear of his father. The very man he worshipped like a god now seemed to haunt him like a shadow.

I avoided digging into that thought. I wasn’t ready to accept what my intuition was whispering.

The next morning, I told his brother-in-law that we had talked the whole night and Raman still hadn’t slept. His response was immediate and firm:
“Rabia, these are signs of depression. You must take him to a doctor immediately. And please… don’t leave him alone.”

---

Reflection:

Sometimes, illness isn’t visible on a report. It hides in the silence, in the sleepless nights, in the weight of invisible fears. Raman’s body may have been healing—but his soul was still bleeding.

This chapter of our life reminded me that true recovery isn't just physical—it's emotional, mental, and spiritual. And no medicine can heal what the heart refuses to speak.