"He's not mad," the doctor said. "He hallucinates at times. Trauma, maybe. Something old."
I lay on the hospital bed, half-sedated. The fan above moved slowly as if it was helping me think. A tear slid down the side of my face.
Just a few days back—
I stepped down from the train at Vizag. The air smelled moist and sticky. The platform was half-asleep — it was 5 a.m. Tea vendors were already looking for customers. Likely their peak business hour.
I turned.
She was still standing by the door, one hand holding the rail, the other stretched toward me. My new wife, Richa. Waiting.
I took her hand.
This was supposed to be a new beginning. But memory doesn't work like that. It stains.
My first wife died suddenly. The kind of death that leaves a vacuum in a room and a life.
My parents pushed me to marry again. To move on. Start over.
But the past doesn't leave you. Change your town, even your country — it haunts you.
I had already found a flat before moving to Vizag, small, enough for two of us. Semi-furnished with a bed, a stove, and some curtains. Just good to look like someone could live there.
By 6 a.m., we were in our new home.
And by 7:30, Richa was in the kitchen — sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, boiling water for tea.
The doorbell rang.
'Too early,' I thought. It could be the milkman or the newspaper guy.
I opened the door.
And forgot to breathe.
It was Parmeely. My first wife.
Standing in front of me. Same face. Same mole under her lip. The same faint bergamot perfume she wore on weekends.
"Parmeely… how...?" I choked. My pupils expanded.
She smiled calmly. "I am your neighbour. Just came to see who moved in next door."
From the kitchen, Richa called out, "Tea's ready."
Parmeely leaned slightly. "Oh, your wife. She has a lovely voice. Don't worry, I'll talk to her later — maybe this afternoon."
She turned, opened the door beside ours, and went in.
I stood frozen. Every cell in my body was confused or shocked. Couldn't make sense of anything. No dots to connect.
"How's the tea?" Richa asked, expecting some appreciation.
I sat at the table, still staring at the door. She poured the tea. I took the cup. It was warm. Real.
Maybe I imagined her.
But what about that bergamot smell? That voice. That knowing look.
Parmeely.
My dead wife was living next door. My shoulders dropped. I sank deep into the sofa.
I was supposed to join the office the next day as part of an internal transfer.
But that whole day, I didn't move. Just watched the door. Waiting for something that shouldn't exist. Not now.
Was it a ghost? A lookalike? A joke? Or something I hadn't dared to name?
Memories crept in. Her voice. Her laugh. Her lips.
That night, I still remember so clearly. I kissed her, and she closed her eyes.
I used to love her madly. She kissed me back. We undressed. Her hands traced every part of my body and soul. We slipped under the sheets and covered each other.
After some time, she was asleep, her hand on my chest.
Her phone beeped. I reached out for it without disturbing her.
A message from some Ravi.
"How are you, Pari? I'm missing you. Why did you leave me to marry that idiot? I can't sleep. Send me your photo."
I checked the DP — some guy, clean-shaven, early 30s, wearing a black shirt.
I reread the message. This was the first message from this guy, but he said, 'Pari.' He meant Parmeely, for sure.
This couldn't be true. I wanted to wake her. Who the hell is Ravi?
I didn't. I waited for morning.
But she left early. Hospital shift. Nurse duty.
I stayed, with the pain in my soul and in my heart.
That evening, I got stuck at work. Reached back home late. She was asleep already, curled on one side of the bed. Her side.
Her phone beeped again.
Same guy, Ravi:
"I almost got hit by a car today, lost in your thoughts. Why are you being rude, love, send a better photo, you know which one?"
"Parmeely!" I shouted.
She jumped awake. "What happened?"
"Who is Ravi?"
"Who, Ravi?" she repeated.
"Your lover, Ravi!"
"I don't… I only love you. What happened? You're scaring me—"
"Don't lie! These messages don't lie!"
I lost my cool. My hands were shaking with anger as I extended the phone to her.
She grabbed the phone and tapped quickly. Then, I handed it back.
"Which messages?"
Gone.
Deleted.
That calm face. Too quiet for my angry mind.
The beast in me was awake.
I grabbed a pillow and slammed it down on her face.
Pushed. Hard.
Tried to kill every truth she never gave me.
"Could you give me a hand? I'm lifting something that doesn't move."
I turned.
Richa was standing by the kitchen doorway, holding a half-open box.
Looking at me with the same love that once destroyed me.
I helped her.
Afternoon. The bell rang again.
I got up. Richa was in the kitchen, cutting onions with a long, gleaming steel knife.
It was Parmeely.
"Hi," she smiled. "Just came to meet your wife."
"No, sorry… she's busy," I said, without thinking.
She turned to leave.
I couldn't stop myself: "How are you?"
She turned, surprised. "Good, you asked. I'm fine."
My God. Same tone. Same eyes. Same love.
She left.
Back inside, my wife was still in the kitchen. But her eyes had changed.
Cold. Wide.
Staring at me like Parmeely could have if she could.
Knife still in hand. Holding it like she wanted to kill me.
Just waiting for a moment.
I froze. My heart was throbbing up to my ribs.
I yelled. Threw a bowl. Threw a chair.
Shattered the table glass.
And then I was here.
Hospital.
Now the present
"He's not mad," the doctor repeated. "Just hallucinates. It could be from childhood. Could be old trauma."
My eyelids fluttered.
I remembered the river. My younger brother. Drowning.
Me trying to save myself.
My parents blamed me. I used to see him after. Talk to him like he was still there.
And now? Ravi's messages. Parmeely staying next door.
Why didn't my wife hear the doorbell?
My instinct. My trauma.
Maybe none of it was real.
I stared at the ceiling. The fan moved slowly as if it was now helping me connect the dots.
"I'm sorry, Parmeely," my soul whispered.
I wished the fan to fall on my face. But it didn't.
The tear did. Real.
React
