It bathed in dust. ‘The Ramayana’.

A mahogany desk, gigantic and looming, stood bare—save for the book it bestowed refuge to. Three years had passed, Gauri realised. The world had changed seasons, and the leaves on trees cycled on dropping and sprouting, yet Gauri’s gaze hadn’t dawned on the book until this very moment.

Three years of abstaining herself from inhaling and imbibing the essence of ‘Ramayana’.

Her father’s voice—fragile yet insistent, echoed in her memory, “Read it to me, chori,” he had whispered, battling through his final days.

Silent tears fell from her eyes through her cheeks to her lips. Her hands tightened as her fingers wrestled among themselves. An incessant urge to hold the book to her bosom gripped her and throttled her. She darted a little forward, her heels scraping against the grime, old carpet. A whirlwind of emotions glimmered across her face—nostalgia, grief, fondness and—resentment. As her eyes arrested the book that etched in itself the irrevocable final memories she had shared with her father, she looked away, flinching—her eyes shut. The world had once again, morphed into an empty canvas for her, stripped off any worth.

“The ‘Ramayana’,” her voice was barely a whisper.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to hold the book, let alone touch it. The warmth of her hands, the yearning in her chest, had yet to make to its tattered pages.

It had just been the two of them—Gauri and her father—in this very room when his breath had turned shallow, and when death had finally laid its claim on him.

“But there had been the three of us. And then Buwa left, and in turn, I left you, all your teachings and your wisdom, to rot in this room,” she murmured, her voice laden with grief.

Back then, the air had carried a sharp tang of chemicals, yet the sun had filtered in—warm and gentle. Unlike today. Today, there was no sun—its presence denied. The curtains were drawn and a silence loomed—too heavy to break.

Memories began skating through her mind—fluid and relentless. One after the other, they rushed to her, like a tornado that the world couldn’t control. The harsh final gasps of his breath while he had held her forearms—unrelenting yet weak in its strength, danced in her memory until the gasps quietened, and in its wake, his body lay against her, motionless and breathless.

Gauri remained still, statued a few feet shy from the table. Her tear-stricken face wandered across the room—taking in its weary state. An exhausted fluorescent light hung low from the ceiling, grasping at final straws, waiting until darkness swallowed it. The maroon curtains, whose heavy tails pooled on the floor, looked weary and tired. The wooden rod holding the curtains threatened to give its way to the floor at any moment. The room looked—melancholic and pathetic, Gauri gathered.

Her eyes landed on the book again. Memories of a much joyful time hovered in her mind—of the week she had spent devouring its pages, lost in its world—long before her father’s ailment caught their lives.

Memories, why are they etched so heavily in one’s soul? Why is it impossible to forget? Why does it intensify every other moment?

Her sobs broke free, wrecking louder this time, shaking through her as her body folded in on itself, collapsing on the floor. Once upon a time, the same book had strewed the fragrance of sandalwood, turmeric and woods wherever it stayed put. Once upon a time, her fingers had glided and her curious eyes had darted across the words of the book as though discovering the meaning of each syllable was as vital as taking in the subsequent breath that awaited.

But that Gauri was long gone. As was the vivacious ‘Ramayana’.

A piercing bang on the door shattered the silence, startling her.

“Gauri! Gauri, are you in there?” Her mother’s voice rang from beyond the door, loud with urgency.

“Open the door! Open it!” She shrieked.

A few moments later, the door creaked open sharply and her mother stumbled in, almost careening to the floor. She carried with herself the familiar smell of cooked rice.

“I didn’t realise it was open,” she muttered, straightening herself. Gauri didn’t look back, didn’t give her mother a single glance.

A soft pat on the shoulder. “Chori…” Her mother’s voice was gentle now. “I miss him too, you know,” she said. “But those who are alive have to keep living.”

“Just a moment, Aama,” Gauri said, stealing a sideways glance at her mother, still not fully meeting her eyes. “I’ll be down for food in a few minutes,” she managed, holding her tears still.

After a moment of silence, her mother replied, “The lentils are still cooking—you don’t need to rush.” She left it at that, quietly closing the door behind her.

As her mother’s footsteps grew distant, Gauri stood to her full height. Tears and silent sobs made shivers run throughout her body. The ‘Ramayana’ had once gifted her young mind a holy place to grow up in. It had been her mental sanctuary until it ceased to be. It had imparted on her the light when she read it in sheer devotion and curiosity. But the same book, the same ‘Ramayana’, had whisked away her light when she closed its pages for the final time with her father’s last breath.

Three years ago, Gauri hadn’t just lost her father. Three years ago, she had lost the light within her—the one that had once enshrined her from within.

Gauri took hurried steps toward the table, her sobs echoing loudly in the room. With her frail arms wrapped tightly around her torso, she moved forward, eyes fixated on the book—soft with longing. Reaching the table, she clutched its dusty edges—the grime settling into her skin. Up close, she noticed, the book had suffered its own share of neglect. The hardcover bore the scars of time, as though it had survived a few battles of its own. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it. Couldn’t witness the state it had reduced to. And her contribution to it. I neglected my book. I neglected you. And I still put all the blame on you.

How could I have been so blind?

But what difference would it make if I accepted it now? The lost years aren’t coming back. Buwa isn’t going to resurrect.

Slowly, she brought her hands forward to wipe the filth off the cover. Her hands shuddered as she almost withdrew before they landed on the book. A thud echoed. As she began to rub, she couldn’t bear the distress of remaining far from it. She tugged it to her chest, cuddling it with both her hands. She began cradling the book as a mother would nestle her newborn, scouring its shell against her heart, letting the dust settle onto her clothes. Ever so gently, with tears making way to her clothes, she opened it.

The pages; yellowish with age—hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed. The words on the pages awaited her, just as she had left them when she last read them to her withering father.

A deep breath. A gulp. A resolve. Her eyes landed upon the verses.

For three years, she had turned away from her spiritual sanctuary. Her once unmovable faith—cremated alongside her father. But now, as the blacks of the words against the whites of the pages stared back at her—hard and present—it struck her, ‘Ramayana’ had never abandoned her. She had washed it off from her life. But it had never denied her. It had been waiting for her in this room. Without the sun’s warmth, it waited on her.

With the book held tightly in her embrace, Gauri turned towards the shrouded window. A flicker of a smile loomed on her face when she observed the sun straining to sneak its way through the hefty drapes.