In the bustling city of Mumbai, Vihaan Malhotra, a charismatic rockstar known for his soulful music and rebellious spirit, captivates audiences with his performances.
Meanwhile, in the serene landscapes of Jaipur, Dr. Arpita Virani, a compassionate...
"Dr. Virani—when you were on international fellowships, particularly in crisis zones, how did you carry those stories? Did the emotional residue ever bleed into your surgical precision?"
It was precise.
But it wasn't invasive.
It was the kind of question someone asks only if they've had to carry their own residue and learn where to place it.
I answered. Carefully. Honestly. My words were technical, but my tone wasn't. I watched him nod—not in agreement, but in understanding.
After the session, he approached me with a smile that didn't rush.
"Dr. Virani, I hope you don't mind—I've followed your work since Geneva. Your panel on post-trauma surgery really shaped a piece I was writing."
That word again.
Geneva.
It was always quiet, the way it entered a conversation. But it never arrived without stirring something.
"You were there?" I asked, eyes narrowing just slightly.
He nodded. "Yes. Covering the intersection of art and medicine. I wrote about the charity gala too... One of the performers really struck me—Vihaan Malhotra. You may have heard of him?"
I held my expression still. Neutral. A sip of air before responding.
"Yes. I've heard of him."
His smile widened, unaware. "His song that night—Stillness in G Major—that stayed with me. I didn't know music could feel like silence holding its breath."
And I... smiled.
Faint. Private.
Because I did know what that felt like. Intimately. Painfully. Peacefully.
We exchanged contacts—not performatively. Not as networking protocol.
But because something about him told me he was the kind of person who noticed the undercurrents. Who saw not just what people said, but why they said it the way they did. He listened with no appetite to own.
And these days—when accolades echoed louder than empathy—that mattered more than I realized.
Maybe it wasn't about Vihaan.
Maybe it wasn't about Geneva.
Maybe it was just about someone who asked, then stayed for the answer.
And that was enough—for now.
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Amsterdam,
The espresso was too bitter, but I kept drinking it.
It grounded me. Anchored the morning. Reminded me I was here, now—even when parts of my mind weren't. The mug was chipped. I liked that about it. Like the city around me, it didn't try to be anything it wasn't.
