The Dream
It begins like a memory.
Or maybe not mine.

The café.

Empty.

But not empty.

The walls breathe—slow, pulsing.
The light overhead flickers in rhythms that don’t make sense.
Soft. Dimming.
Like a heartbeat trapped underwater.

It’s Monsoon Café—
but not.

The colors are wrong.
The warm wood feels cold.
The hanging bulbs sway without wind.
A scent like burnt sugar and old rain clings to the air.

Chairs hover inches above the floor, upside-down and balanced as if gravity forgot its job.
Cutlery ticks.
Not clinks—ticks.
Like a clock buried in a chest cavity.
Like something running out.

She’s behind the counter again.

Her back turned.
Hair darker here.
Longer.
Too long. It spills past her spine, curling at the ends like it’s wet.

Something in my chest tightens.

I don’t say her name.

I don’t have her name.

But I know her.

I think I know her.

The lights flicker again—
and suddenly a door creaks open behind me.

Not a café door.

Not even in the same decade.

It’s that door.
The one from childhood.
Peeling blue paint.
That weird glass panel with the pattern like frozen spiderwebs.

I don’t want to turn around.

But I do.

And now I’m in that hallway.
The one from the house we left.
The one that held more silence than furniture.

The wallpaper still peeling at the corners.
A slight stain at the baseboard where the pipe burst one winter.
Turmeric. Talcum powder. Forgotten afternoons.

No one’s here.

Not Dadi.

Not Gramps.

Not even Koko.

God, Koko.

The half-bald parrot with the sideways blinking eye.
The one that screamed “Abe oye!” whenever Ma left the TV on too loud.
He bit everyone but me.
My only secret keeper.

Gone.
Like everything else.

The hallway stretches.
Photos fall from the walls, suspended in the air, frames snapping mid-float like they’re tired of holding the weight.

I don’t try to catch them.
I already know they’ll show me nothing.
Blanks. Shadows.
Empty chairs at a table that never got filled.

I step forward.

And in an instant—
I’m back at the café.

Except it’s worse now.
Wronger.
Time has looped in on itself.

She’s turned.

Not fully.
Just enough.

I see her cheeks now—
rosy, too rosy, like she’s been holding her breath for centuries.
Her skin: moon-pale.
Her eyes: brown, unmoving, too wide.
Her face…
there’s something blurred around the mouth.
Not fuzzy—just smudged.
Like someone tried to erase it mid-painting and gave up.

I can’t breathe.

I realize I don’t have a mouth.

I want to scream.
Or whisper.
Or ask, Who are you?

But my voice folds in on itself.
Trapped behind bone and skin and years of swallowing silence.

She walks.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just… certain.

Around the counter.
Each step echoes in a place too large for echoes.

And then—
she’s in front of me.

Her lips part.

No smile.
No welcome.
Just breath, and three words:

“I see you.”

And something inside me shatters.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Shatter.

Like glass,
like bone,
like a mirror finally giving in to its fractures.

Her voice echoes,
“I see you.”
And it’s not a whisper.
It’s a key turned inside a lock I didn’t know I’d sealed.

But I don’t get to answer.

The floor beneath me vanishes.

I wake up sharp.

Sweat beads my hairline,
neck damp,
shirt twisted like I fought someone in my sleep and lost.

My heart kicks like it’s being evicted.
The ceiling fan above spins slow—rhythmic, menacing, mechanical.
I stare at it like it owes me something.

I don’t move.

The dream clings.

It always does, but this one—

This one hums.

My ears ring like her voice still lives there.
I see you.

I sit up, press the heel of my palm to my chest.

Still here.

The ache.

The need.

The fear.

That maybe I want to be seen,
but I don’t know what they’ll see when they look.

What if it’s just the cracks?

I stumble out of bed.

Shower.

Scalding.

Let the heat peel me back to reality,
layer by layer.

Towel.
Hoodie.
Same jeans.
Yesterday’s socks.
Still damp.

Avoid the mirror.

It doesn’t help, anyway.

He looks too put-together to be miserable.
Too charming to be hollow.

No one buys it.

They never do.

My phone dings.

I don’t check the assignment.

I don’t even open the student portal.

Instead, thumb over to Instagram.
Habit.
Distraction.
Curse.

Monsoon Café is still trending.
A soft, dreamy blur of wood panels, Edison bulbs, filter-heavy pastries, and warm coffee cups balanced on perfectly manicured hands.

Scroll.

Scroll.

There she is.

Not tagged.

Not front and center.

Just… in the frame.
Behind the counter.
Face slightly turned.
Hair tied up, too long, too dark, except—
that faint brown shimmer where the light touched it.

My stomach knots.

Something in me remembers her features before I let myself remember noticing them.

Like my mind blurred them out to protect me.
To protect her.
To keep that distance safe.

But now?

I’ve seen her too clearly.
Even in sleep.

Maybe especially in sleep.

I blink.
Stare at the screen.

Tap the location tag: Monsoon Café.

Then Google it.

Owned by the Sharmas.

Figures.

Old money.

Page-long articles about "ethical sourcing" and "post-modern design meets nostalgia."
I scoff.
More like curated vintage for the one percent.

Must be nice—
to have your past written in gold leaf.
To not know what quiet sounds like when it’s empty of everyone you loved.

I try to go back to the assignment.
“Write about a lost loved one,” she’d said.

Not Gramps.
Not Dadi.
They were too large to shrink down to prose.
Too sacred for course credit.

Not even Koko.

Goddamn Koko.

The one-eyed parrot with the vocabulary of a drunk auto-wallah,
who hissed at relatives and said "Abe oye" in the middle of Mom's pujas.

Gone now.
Buried under a gulmohar tree that bloomed red like spilled Sindoor.

I write one sentence.
Then delete it.

Again.

And again.

The laptop screen glares at me like it’s judging me.

And it should.

Because I’ve been stuck here—
half-staring at the page,
half-remembering her.

Not doing the work.
Not moving on.

Stuck.

Like always.

I sigh, thumb still hovering over the last picture I saw of her.

One word spills out of my mouth, soft and breathless:

“Shit.”

I pull on my jacket, still warm from yesterday’s walk.

Snapchat’s open—my location still on.

I check it.

Of course it is.

It’s not a cry for help.

It’s just a habit.

Right?

“Let’s see if you’re real.”

And I leave.

The dream still breathing on the back of my neck.

The air outside tastes like leftover rain.

It rained earlier—not hard, not romantic, just enough to make the sidewalks sweat.

I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and keep my head down.

Bhopal at night is a mood board of contradictions:
Lakes like obsidian glass, temples lit with a holy glow,
and traffic that never knows whether it’s sleeping or swearing.

Rickshaws crawl past, blaring Bollywood songs from Bluetooth speakers with too much bass.
Somewhere a dog howls.
Someone’s mother yells out a window.
Everything alive, everything struggling to matter in this mess of concrete and chipped paint.

A city too old for its age.

Too many broken things covered in LED lights and filter cafes.

Kind of like me.

I take the longer route. Past the lake first.
Upper Lake reflects the city in long, jagged smudges.
Couples line the edge, whispering promises they won’t keep.

The breeze carries the scent of chai and wet leaves.
And something else.
Memory.

Dadi used to bring me here.
Peanut chaat in hand.
Telling me that lakes remember the dead.

I didn’t believe her then.

Now?

I don't know.

I pass by a closed bookstore with a rusted shutter and an ancient sign that says Khushbu Kitab Ghar.
I used to think I'd own a store like that.

Sell rare books.
Talk to quiet customers.
Maybe write something someday.
Something that mattered.

And now look at me,
Chasing café girls and missing deadlines.

I sigh.

A group of college kids pass me. Loud, dressed too well for this late.

“Bro he literally ghosted me again, can you believe it?”

I don’t even glance up.

Too familiar.

Another turn.
Another streetlight that flickers like it’s trying to make a decision.

Then, like a mirage, it appears.

Monsoon Café.

There’s a glow to it.

Warm lights pooled in amber.

Glass doors that gleam, handles shaped like vintage umbrella hooks.

Walls in pastel rain-cloud blue.

Vines hang off the edges of the terrace like nature tried to flirt with architecture and lost control.

It’s too much, probably.

Pretentious even.

But also?

Kind of perfect.

Like someone really cared about what this place felt like.

It doesn’t feel like home.

It feels like… a story I haven’t heard yet.

Inside, it’s fuller than expected for this hour.

Laughter. Steam. The sharp scent of espresso.

It smells expensive.

But not exclusive.

I check the menu board through the glass.

Prices aren’t bad.

Weird.

A place this pretty should be twice the price.

Maybe they feel bad for the broke uni kids.

Maybe it’s a trap.

I push the door open.

She’s not at the counter.

Yet the hum of her is everywhere.

I swear, somewhere between the lake and this doorstep,

the air changed.

Or I did.

I’ve only been here once before—today’s my second visit—and already I feel out of place. I settle at an unfamiliar table, cup in hand, glancing at the steamless surface. It’s just lukewarm, minty? Maybe, I don’t know but it’s exactly how I like it. How’d they know I don’t like my drinks too hot? I tap the side of the cup, hoping the rhythm will steady me. Of course it doesn’t.

The café holds its breath. Maybe Bhopal’s relentless heat keeps people moving like molasses, or maybe that storm gathering outside has sucked all the warmth out of the air. Either way, there’s a silence I can’t fill.

I shift in my seat, as though shifting might fix everything. That’s when I spot it: a small, leather‑bound notebook peeking out from under the bench. I pause—do I leave it? Someone could notice. Then again, what if they don’t? I scold myself: stop overthinking. But I do.

Curiosity wins. I reach down and slip it into my palm. It’s light, unmarked, smelling faintly of aged paper and cloves. I flip the pages slowly, waiting for something to make sense. Blank… blank… and then:

“The ones who guard are often the ones who bleed first.”

A shiver. No, that can’t be about me. Or maybe it is. Below, in neat, precise script:

They always take. They never see. I only keep what I can protect.

I glance around—no owner in sight. The baristas are busy behind the counter, and the few customers drift in and out like ghosts. Good. Less chance I get caught.

Another page, smudged with what looks like a fresh coffee ring. Was someone here just minutes ago? My pulse quickens. Then I find another note, scribbled sideways:

“I wasn’t born cruel. Cruelty is a choice I learned from watching the world take what’s mine.”

My chest tightens. Am I reading signs now? I’m ridiculous. I stuff the notebook into my jacket pocket, imagining myself a hero—but the image dissolves into a fool who can’t even talk to a stranger.

A thunderclap rumbles low. I spike my coffee—not for warmth, but to hide my trembling hand. Do I ask someone about the notebook? My voice would crack. They’d hand it back without a second thought, and I’d walk away empty‑handed again.

Inside my head, a riot of what‑ifs erupts: if I’d stayed home… if I’d never wandered in… if I mustered the nerve to speak… No. I’d choke. I always choke.

I stand, the notebook weighing heavier than it should. Is this bravery? Or just more foolishness? Probably the latter. Yet I need to see her, need to know who left this behind and why their words latch onto me.

I cross the floor, each step echoing in my skull. I run through speeches I’ll never deliver. I remind myself: you’re only here because you can’t stand the idea of never knowing her name.

At the counter, I look up—she’s not there. My throat constricts. I clutch my coat, and with the storm thrumming outside, I realize I’ve already turned the page.