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I explained the situation, told them about his sleepless nights, his withdrawn behavior, his sudden lack of confidence.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.
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