The air was thick with dust and smoke, the remnants of buildings shattered in the wake of violence. Military vehicles rumbled through the war-torn streets, their engines muffled by the distant sounds of explosions. The ground shook under the weight of the ongoing conflict, and the sky above was a haunting shade of gray, like a blanket of despair draped over the land.
Amidst the chaos, a figure stood tall, unfazed by the surrounding devastation. Clad in a bulletproof vest, a press badge hanging from her neck, and a microphone in her hand, she surveyed the scene with a calm but determined expression. Her eyes, sharp and focused, cut through the madness as she took in the sight of refugees fleeing, their faces painted with fear and exhaustion.
In the midst of the turmoil, she began speaking, her voice cutting through the noise. "This is Srinija, reporting live from the war-torn borders of Zarnovia, where peace has become a distant memory. Behind me, families are fleeing their homes, abandoning everything they’ve known, to escape the relentless shelling that has reduced this region to rubble."
She paused, her gaze briefly meeting that of a woman holding a crying child, both caught in the same nightmare. The child’s wails echoed the anguish that seemed to permeate the air. "For these people," she continued, her voice steady but filled with a quiet intensity, "survival is their only priority. The United Nations has called for ceasefire talks, but on the ground, the situation is dire—help is too slow, and hope is fading with every passing moment."
Her eyes scanned the destruction around her—collapsed buildings, burnt-out vehicles, and plumes of smoke rising in the distance. "Over 100 lives have already been lost in the past 72 hours, with countless more injured. Sources say the escalation began after a diplomatic deal collapsed earlier this week. Both sides blame each other, but the civilians are the ones paying the ultimate price."
She turned toward a young man standing nearby, holding a makeshift sign that read, "Help Us." Kneeling slightly, she addressed him, her voice softer, but still carrying the weight of the situation. "What message do you want to send to the world?"
The man’s voice trembled as he spoke, his desperation clear. "Please… we just want to live. My family… my wife and daughter… they’re still trapped in the city. No one is coming to help us. We don’t want to die here."
Srinija's expression softened for a moment, but she quickly turned back to the camera, her voice regaining its unwavering strength. "You've heard the plea—simple, heartbreaking, and urgent. But the question remains—when will the world listen? How many more innocent lives must be lost before leaders put humanity above politics?"
Her gaze hardened, her words resolute. "As journalists, we are here to show you the truth, no matter how grim it may be. This is not just Zarnovia’s story—it is a call to action for every nation watching. This is Srinija, reporting live from the frontline, where survival is uncertain, but the spirit of resilience shines through. Back to you in the studio."
*****
Srinija entered the vanity room, her mind still buzzing from the adrenaline of the live broadcast. She leaned against the counter, her fingers brushing over the sleek surface of her phone, which lay in front of her. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioner. As she glanced at her phone, a missed call from a familiar number caught her attention- the name of the doctor flashed across the screen. Her heart skipped a beat.She immediately called back but it went unanswered.
She frowned but shrugged it off, refocusing on her notes for the next segment.Then, the phone rang again, the same name appearing on the caller ID. She answered quickly, trying to mask the weariness in her voice.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was unmistakably that of a doctor, but there was an urgent edge to it, faint, yet laced with tension. "Srinija? This is Dr. Gupta from the hospital. You need to come back immediately. It's related to your father's condition."
Srinija’s breath caught. The words barely processed in her mind as a cold wave of dread surged through her. She gripped the phone tighter, her heart pounding in her chest.
"What happened to him?" she asked, her voice shaking, barely above a whisper.
The doctor’s voice faltered, hesitation in his tone. "I can't go into details right now, but it’s urgent. You need to come as soon as possible."
The phone line went silent for a beat, but the weight of the words lingered in the air like a suffocating fog.
Srinija's pulse quickened as she felt a chill seep through her bones. Without another word, she hung up, her hands trembling. Panic set in, every instinct screaming at her to move, to get to the hospital. She quickly contracted the authorities & grabbed her things in haste, her movements quick and erratic, the reality of the situation sinking in as she rushed out of the vanity room.
--------------------------------------------
The sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden glow over the quiet village of Birbhum. A warm breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and blooming jasmine, rustling the faded curtains of a small, modest home at the end of a narrow lane. Inside, the silence was occasionally broken by the exaggerated groans of an elderly man.
Just as another theatrical sigh filled the air, the wooden door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, his presence casual yet commanding. Dressed in a simple but crisp kurta and trousers, he dusted off his sleeves as he walked in, his sharp eyes taking in the scene before him.
“Oh, Akshaj, you’ve arrived,” a middle aged old greeted, his voice a dramatic mix of relief and suffering. He was sprawled across a wooden chair like a fallen warrior, clutching his stomach with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. “Tell me, Doctor, have you ever seen a man this close to his final days?”
Akshaj’s easy smile faded slightly at the word doctor. He let out a small sigh, shaking his head. “Gopal kaka, don’t call me that. I’m not a doctor anymore.”
Gopal scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe not on paper, but for me—for all of us here—you will always be our doctor. License or no license, you’re the only one we trust.”
Akshaj looked away for a brief moment, as if the weight of those words settled somewhere deep inside him. But before the silence could grow heavy, Gopal groaned loudly, shifting in his chair.
“Ah, my back has betrayed me, my knees are in open rebellion, and worst of all… my stomach has turned against me.”
Akshaj smirked, already suspecting the cause. “Let me guess. You ate too many beguni, peyaji (fried pakoras- made with bringle & onnion) ,chop again, didn’t you?”
The middle aged man let out a guilty cough. “How dare you accuse me of such recklessness?” He paused. “But also… yes. But what was I supposed to do? They were staring at me with such love from the plate. I couldn’t break their hearts.”
Akshaj shook his head, stepping closer. “And now your stomach is breaking your heart. Let me see.”
Gopal sighed heavily. “Doctor, I’m telling you, my back is as stiff as an old rusted door, my knees have been threatening to quit for years, and now my stomach—oh, my poor stomach—it’s rolling around like an angry storm in the sea.”
Akshaj chuckled, kneeling to examine him. “So, your back is in protest, your knees are plotting an escape, and your stomach is hosting a cyclone. Your body’s basically a full-on rebellion.”
Gopal nodded solemnly. “It’s a conspiracy. I suspect my shoulders are in on it too, but they’re keeping quiet. I don’t trust them.”
Akshaj pressed lightly on the old man’s abdomen, earning another exaggerated groan. “Well, Gopal kaka, considering your diet, I’d say your stomach isn’t the villain here. It’s the innocent victim of your poor decisions.”
Gopal clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Akshaj. If my stomach is suffering, shouldn’t you show some sympathy?”
Akshaj grinned. “Oh, I have plenty of sympathy—for your stomach, not for you. You’re the one who fed it like a festival feast and then acted surprised when it started rioting.”
The old man sighed. “So, what’s the verdict? Am I doomed?”
Akshaj straightened up. “You’ll survive. But if you don’t stop treating your stomach like a festival buffet, next time, I’ll let your knees and back handle the situation alone.”
Gopal winced. “Alright, alright, no more oily food for a week.”
“A month,” Akshaj corrected.
“A week,” Gopal bargained.
Akshaj crossed his arms.
Gopal groaned. “Fine, two weeks. But if I perish from sadness, my ghost will haunt you.”
Akshaj laughed, shaking his head. “Deal. Now, sit tight. Let’s fix this rebellion before your stomach files an official complaint.”
As he got to work, the small house filled with a mix of amused banter and exaggerated groans, the kind of humor that made even a visit to the doctor feel less like a chore and more like a lively conversation between old friends.
***********
As Akshaj stepped out of the small house, the warm village air wrapped around him like an old friend. A soft breeze carried the scent of damp earth and distant cooking fires, filling the air with the quiet hum of everyday life.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he glanced back at the door he had just walked out of. Gopal’s words lingered in his mind. "For us, you’ll always be our doctor."
He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. How easily these people said things that dug into places he tried to ignore.
A doctor. That’s what he used to be.
Now? Now, he was just a man trying to exist in the shadows of who he once was.
The white coat, the hospital corridors, the respect—it was all gone. All because of one mistake, one moment that changed everything. The weight of his lost license still sat heavy on his chest, a reminder of a past that no longer belonged to him.
And yet, here, in this village, none of that seemed to matter.
They still looked at him the same way. Trusted him. Called him their savior, their healer. Even when he didn’t feel like one.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. It was ironic—back in the city, his name was written off, tainted. But here, in these narrow lanes filled with laughter, stubborn old men, and barefoot children running wild, he was still someone.
Not a doctor, perhaps.
But maybe… still Akshaj.
He took a deep breath, letting the village air settle inside him. Maybe he’d never wear the white coat again, never walk through those sterile hospital corridors.
But if he could still ease someone’s pain, if he could still make an old man laugh through his complaints, if he could still be of use to someone—then maybe he hadn’t lost everything after all.
With that thought, Akshaj stuffed his hands into his pockets and started walking down the familiar dusty road, the warmth of the evening sun on his back and the weight of the past just a little lighter than before.
*******
The door creaked open as Akshaj stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room. There she was—his younger sister Akshara, sitting at the dining table, her expression unreadable, a storm of emotions just waiting to burst. Keshav, the ever-loyal servant, was sweeping the floor, but his knowing smirk betrayed his awareness of the sibling drama about to unfold.
Akshara glanced up without looking at him properly, her voice cutting through the silence. "Look, Keshav kaka," she said loudly, making sure Akshaj heard, "how lucky we are... We get to witness the grand arrival of Mr. Akshaj Acharya."
Akshaj couldn't hide his grin as he stepped further inside, knowing full well what she was doing. This was her way of showing anger without directly confronting him. He leaned against the doorframe with exaggerated innocence.
"Re meri pyari behna, meri bholi behna," (Oh my dear sister, my innocent sister) he said, his tone dripping with mock sweetness, "meri rosogolla, l-"
Akshara didn't let him finish. "Stop your drama, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. busy prime minister," she shot back, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Akshaj held up his hands in a dramatic surrender, trying to coax her. "Sorry, Akshu," he said with his best puppy-dog eyes. "Dekho, what I brought for you! Your favorite nolen gur er rosogolla and vapa doi!"
Akshara scrunched her nose and waved her hand dismissively. "Keshav kaka, tell him. I'm not a seven-year-old baby who melts down over sweets," she said, making sure her voice reached Akshaj loud and clear.
Keshav , hearing her words, chuckled softly to himself, enjoying the banter. "Haan haan, bilkul, Akshara beti." (Yes, yes, absolutely, Akshara daughter) he muttered under his breath, sweeping the floor a little faster.
Akshaj, not missing a beat, winked at their Keshav kaka before turning back to Akshara with a grin. "Arre, 7 nhi to kya hua, mera 23 saal ki baby to hain na tu, tujhe toh pata hai na- Tum meri sabse pyari baby ho!" (If you're not 7, then what does it matter? You're my 23-year-old baby, you know that! You're my sweetest baby!) he said, crossing his arms in mock pride.
Akshara, wrinkling her nose, said, "Eww, from whom are you learning this kind of cringe? As far as I know, you don't have any girlfriend... Waittt... Kahi aisa to nahi ki aap or Gopal Kaka ke bich kuch... I mean, some kind of forbidden love... That's why when he called you, you literally ran to his house without eating the food... Hey Bhagwan, yeh kya ho gaya!!" (is there something going on between you and Gopal Uncle? Some forbidden love? That's why when he called, you literally ran to his house without even eating the food... Oh my God, what's happening?)
"Chi! Stop this drama, Miss Drama Queen," Akshaj retorted. "Okay, fine, I should've eaten the food, but I thought it was something urgent the way he was talking! Maybe he's caught in some emergency!"
Akshara rolled her eyes dramatically, letting out a deep sigh.
Keshav, with a sly grin, gave his verdict: "Arre, yeh Akshaj vs Akshara drama toh humare ghar ka hissa hai. Kuch bhi ho." (Oh, this drama is a part of our household. Whatever happens.)
Akshaj shot Keshav a grateful look before turning back to Akshara, his smirk returning. "Chal, ab toh maan ja. Yeh rosogolla le le. Tumhe pata hai na, main tumhare bina zindagi ke maze kaise jee sakta hoon?"
Akshara, unmoved, started to chew on her rosogolla with exaggerated slowness. After a dramatic pause, she turned to him with a smirk. "Mmm, fine, I'll forgive you this time... but next time, no running off during food time!"
Akshaj shot her a wink, and as he settled down, he thought to himself—no matter how much they bickered, he wouldn't trade his annoying little sister for anything in the world.
--------------------------------------------
Meanwhile several Hours Later – A Hospital in Kolkata:
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a cold glow over the hospital corridor. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the hushed murmurs of doctors and the distant beeping of medical monitors.
Near the nurses’ station, a middle-aged man stood conversing with the doctor, his expression grim, hands folded tightly across his chest.
Srinija rushed into the corridor, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her eyes scanned the space until they landed on the familiar figure.
"Sekhar Kaka!" she called out, her voice breathless yet firm.
The man turned at the sound of her voice, his worried eyes softening for a moment before he stepped forward. "Srinija, beta…" He hesitated, unsure of what to say, as if the words were stuck in his throat.
Ignoring the growing fear clawing at her chest, Srinija quickly turned to the doctor. "Doctor, my father… How is he? What happened?"
The doctor, a man in his late fifties with a composed yet serious expression, adjusted his glasses before speaking. "Miss Srinija, I need to speak with you privately regarding your father's condition."
Srinija felt her stomach drop, her fingers unconsciously clenching the fabric of her kurti. She exchanged a glance with Sekhar Kaka, who gave her a small nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, she followed the doctor into his chamber.
*******
Inside the Doctor’s Chamber:
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock. Srinija sat stiffly across from Dr. Gupta, her nails digging into her palms as she braced herself for whatever was coming next.
The doctor folded his hands over the file in front of him and met her anxious gaze. " Srinija, your father's condition has become critical.Today it became worse .The surgery can no longer be delayed."
Srinija's breath hitched. "But... you said we had time," she whispered, her voice barely holding together.
Dr. Gupta sighed. "We were monitoring his condition closely, but his recent test results indicate a rapid decline. Given his age and pre-existing medical conditions, the surgery carries significant risks. However, waiting any longer could be even more dangerous."
Srinija’s mind spun, the weight of the decision pressing heavily on her. "And the chances?" she forced herself to ask.
Dr. Gupta hesitated. "We will do everything we can, but I must be honest with you—there is no guarantee. His body may not respond well to the procedure, and complications could arise."
Her chest tightened as she struggled to steady her breathing. She had always known this day would come, but nothing prepared her for the helplessness she felt now.
"There's no other option?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dr. Gupta shook his head. "We have no option left .The sooner we operate, the better his chances, but. ..... We need your decision soon."
Srinija swallowed hard, her throat dry. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to do something—to find another way. But there was no time for hesitation.
"I need to see him," she finally said, her voice steadier than she felt.
Dr. Gupta nodded. "Of course. But please, prepare yourself."
As she stood up, a deep sense of fear and determination warred within her. Whatever happened next, she had to be strong. For him.
*****
The soft glow of the hospital room seemed distant, as the quiet beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic pulse of the machines filled the otherwise still air. Srinija sat beside her father’s bed, watching the frail man who had always been her strength now lying weak and vulnerable. His once vibrant eyes were dim, and his voice, which had once been full of life, now barely managed to whisper.
Her father, the man who had filled her life with love, strength, and warmth, was now in that conditions. The long conversation,she has just shared with his father, gnawed at her heart, but she fought the tears that threatened to spill over. She knew he wouldn’t be able to sing this time, not in the way he used to, but she needed to hear the melody, the words that had always been a part of their bond.
She gently clasped his hand in hers, her fingers trembling. “Baba… do you remember the song?” she whispered, her voice shaky. “The one you used to sing to me when I was little?”
Her father’s eyes fluttered open, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Despite his frailty, there was still a light in his eyes, a hint of recognition. “I remember,” he whispered softly, his voice barely audible.
Srinija took a deep breath, wiping away a tear, and began softly singing, her voice trembling as she recalled the memory.
"Chanda hai tu, Mera Suraj hai tu,
O meri aankhon ka tara hai tu.”
Her voice cracked with emotion, but she pressed on, the words flowing from her heart. Her father’s hand stirred, faintly squeezing hers in response. He couldn’t sing anymore, but in that moment, it was as if he was trying to hold on to the memory of the song.
Srinija continued, her voice filled with the weight of love and sorrow.
“Jiti hu main bas tujhe dekhakar,
Iss tute dil ka sahara hai tu.”
As she sang, Srinija closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the countless nights when her father had sung this song to her, lifting her spirits and filling her with warmth. It had always been their song, a bond they had shared. She had always been his little girl, his world. Now, in this moment, it felt as though she was the one holding him together, just as he had once held her.
Her father’s eyes fluttered closed again, his grip weakening, but the softness on his face never faded. Srinija’s voice wavered, but she finished the verse.
“Chanda hai tu, Mera Suraj hai tu.”
The last note hung in the air, her voice trembling as the room grew quieter. The gentle beeping of the heart monitor seemed louder now, and the weight of the moment pressed heavily on Srinija’s chest. Her father’s hand lay limp in hers, and her heart ached as she felt the growing distance between them.
She leaned in closer, pressing her forehead against his, tears streaming down her face. “Baba… you have to fight, you can't leave me like maa.” she whispered softly, her voice choked with emotion.
For a moment, she just sat there, holding his hand, the soft hum of the machines filling the silence. The love they shared, the bond that had been forged over years of laughter, pain, and unspoken words, lingered in the stillness.
Outside the window, the soft glow of the streetlights reflected off the calm night, but inside, in that hospital room, the world felt different. It felt as if time had paused, and all that mattered was the love between a father and his daughter—strong, eternal, and unbreakable, no matter what happened next.
And though the song had ended, its melody continued to resonate in her heart, a final reminder of the man who had been her moon, her sun, and the guiding star of her life.
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