I opened my eyes to light. Not sunlight, not electricity, but a soft, golden glow that pulsed like a living heartbeat. I wasn’t in my room. I wasn’t even sure I was on Earth anymore.
The sky above was endless, painted with silver streaks and faint stars, even though it felt like morning. Beneath me stretched a path made entirely of lotus petals, suspended in midair. There was no wind, no sound, just a deep, sacred stillness.
I slowly stood up. My last memory was of crying quietly at my study desk, the pressure of life and expectations building until I whispered a desperate prayer. I hadn’t expected an answer.
Yet here I was.
Footsteps echoed behind me. I turned. A woman in a red sari approached, fire embroidered into the fabric. Her eyes glowed like embers, and in one hand she held a trident.
I froze. My breath caught. “Parvati?”
She nodded. “This is not Earth, nor Heaven. You’re in between. Where the soul is heard clearly.”
“I don’t understand. Am I… dead?”
“Not quite. Your soul cried loud enough to reach us,” she said, stepping closer.
Behind her, another figure appeared. He was blue, tall, his presence stilling the air around him. The crescent moon on his head glimmered faintly.
“Shiva,” I whispered, almost bowing.
He looked into my eyes. “You were fading, but you are not lost. We brought you here because your time isn’t over. But the path forward has changed.”
A lump formed in my throat. “I was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of being invisible. I didn’t want to die… but I didn’t want to keep living like that either.”
Just then, a soft melody floated in from the horizon. I turned to see a man walking barefoot, a flute in his hand, a peacock feather in his crown.
“Krishna,” I murmured.
He smiled warmly. “You carry a heart too full of pain. It needed space to breathe.”
He touched my forehead gently. In that instant, memories washed over me. My mother’s tired but loving eyes, my younger brother’s laughter echoing down the hallway, my father’s stories of Ramayana over tea. Moments I had buried under self-doubt and silence.
“You’re not unloved,” Shiva said. “But when the storm inside is too loud, the world outside fades.”
I felt something shift in my chest. “If I matter… why did I stop feeling real?”
“Because you gave all your light to others,” Parvati said. “But never saved any for yourself.”
As her words settled, the sky flickered. I turned and saw a strange scene unfolding.
A girl stood in my room. She had my face, my voice, my clothes. But there was something wrong. Her eyes were hollow. Her smile, too sharp. She looked at my family and mimicked kindness, but it felt... empty.
“Who is she?” I asked, heart pounding.
Krishna’s expression grew somber. “She is a shadow. Formed from the part of you that broke. If you do not return, she will live in your place. But her path leads only to ruin.”
I watched her lock the bedroom door and search through my mother’s jewelry. My little brother knocked, confused. She didn’t answer. She just smiled at her reflection.
“No,” I whispered. “That’s not me.”
“You must face her,” Parvati said. “To reclaim your story.”
Lakshmi appeared then, radiant and calm. She touched my heart with her glowing hands. A warmth spread through me, chasing away the cold.
“You were not born to disappear,” she said softly. “You were born to rise.”
The lotus petals beneath my feet faded. The gods stepped back. I felt myself falling.
And then I was back.
Back in my room. Or something like it.
The girl stood before me, facing the mirror.
“You shouldn’t have come,” she said, not turning around.
“You’re not real,” I said.
She laughed. “Real enough. I kept everything moving while you broke. I learned how to smile while dying inside. And now you think you can just come back?”
“I didn’t come to argue,” I said firmly. “I came to live.”
She turned slowly, her face morphing into every emotion I had buried—grief, anger, loneliness.
“Then show me,” she whispered.
The room changed. We were no longer in the house. We stood on the edge of a cliff made of light. The sky was torn between day and night.
She lunged at me, screaming all the words I never said. I caught her wrists.
“I see you,” I said through tears. “I created you. But I don’t need you anymore.”
She hesitated, then cracked like glass.
And I woke up.
The white hospital ceiling came into view. My mother’s tearful face leaned over me. My brother’s hand squeezed mine. A doctor called out behind them.
I was alive.
I didn’t speak of the place I had gone. No one would have believed it. But every day after that, I lit a diya in the morning and offered silent thanks. I smiled when I felt it. I cried when I had to. I didn’t try to be perfect anymore.
And just as Krishna promised, I began to remember only what I needed to.
Weeks later, I walked alone to the temple near my house. The sun had just risen, the sky painted gold. I sat under the old banyan tree, the one with red threads tied around its trunk.
And there, in the breeze, I heard it again.
A flute.
Soft, distant, gentle.
I closed my eyes, smiling.
Somewhere between the worlds, a door had opened. And even though I had come back, I knew it hadn’t closed.
Not really.
-bhoomglobe
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