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.
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