Between files and faded memories

Note to Readers:

This short story invites you to journey slowly through its pages, exploring the depth and nuances of its narrative and characters. Please take your time to fully engage with the story. Let it unfold at its own pace, revealing its intricacies and emotions as you read. Your patience will enrich the experience of Anand and Lakshmi’s story.

"In every work of art the spirit dwells. To experience it fully, we must take our time."

— John Ruskin

Anand’s day starts like every other—an alarm that feels more like a jolt back into reality than a gentle wake-up call. The ceiling fan above spins lazily, the paint on its blades chipped and peeling. Anand glances up, reminded of a repair he’s been putting off. The thick, heavy air clings to the apartment like a bad memory.

His wife is already up, moving around the kitchen in silence. He doesn’t need the sound to know what’s happening; the quiet is enough. Over the years, they’ve shared so many routines that words have become unnecessary. Now, it’s just the quiet understanding of two people living the same life, side by side, but miles apart.

He splashes water on his face, staring at the reflection that meets him in the mirror. The wrinkles on his face, the gray creeping into his hair—this is what life in this unforgiving city does to you. It wears you down, bit by bit, until you’re just a shadow of the person you thought you’d become. He brushes his teeth, but there’s no freshness that comes with it—just the same old taste of monotony and fluoride.

As he pulls on his shirt, his mind drifts—back to the days when this city, though unchanged in its buildings and streets, felt wide open, a place of possibilities rather than burdens. He remembers those college mornings, waking up with a jolt of anticipation, just knowing he’d see Lakshmi. Everything was lighter then—meeting her by the canteen, sharing cups of chai that were more than just tea. Her laughter would hang in the air, lingering in his mind long after they parted, like an echo he couldn’t shake. Now, the same streets that once promised adventure and joy seem to weigh him down with the weight of unmet expectations and the grind of routine.

There were moments—tiny, almost imperceptible ones—during their college days when he nearly told her what he truly felt. Once, on a rainy afternoon under that banyan tree, when she’d leaned in closer, her hair brushing against his cheek, he was on the verge of revealing his deeper emotions. But he hesitated, convincing himself that waiting was the right choice, that patience was a virtue. And yet, here he was, years later, still waiting, still hesitating, as life had pulled them apart and they had each taken different paths.

Breakfast is just something to do, filling the silence and the empty pit in his stomach. His daughter chatters about school, her voice the only bright spot in the dull haze of morning. Anand nods and smiles, but his mind is already at the office, buried under the mountain of files, the deadlines that never stop, the loop of work that grinds on. At the same time, he wrestles with the mounting financial pressures—school fees, books, and other expenses that seem to grow with each passing day.

A fleeting thought slips in—a memory of Lakshmi, of how her eyes would light up when they talked about the future. He pushes it down with a gulp of his Upma, burying it under the weight of drudgery and the financial strain, the things that define his life now.

He grabs his bag, kisses his daughter on the forehead, and steps into the relentless chaos of the city. The bus ride is a blur—noise, bodies too close, the smell of sweat and grime clinging to everything. He searches for and finds his regular spot by the window, a small, familiar corner that’s become a daily ritual. It’s a symbol of how his life has settled into a monotonous order. He doesn't look at the world outside, but instead uses this spot as a sanctuary to pretend he’s somewhere else.

As the bus jerks forward, his thoughts drift to Lakshmi. She’ll be there, across the room, just like every day. They’ll exchange nods, maybe a few words, but nothing that touches the past, nothing that stirs the memories they both carry in silence. His mind again meanders to the last time they were truly together, sitting on that bench under that banyan tree, her head on his shoulder as they watched the world move around them. Only if, he could have gathered the courage to put his heart out that day, but as always, the moment passed, and the words never came.

The bus hits a pothole, the same one it hits every day, jolting him back to the present, to the office building that looms ahead—old, worn out, just like him.

Another day. Another grind. Another set of sacrifices. He steps off the bus, adjusts his bag, and walks toward the entrance, bracing himself for the hours to come.

---

Lakshmi wakes before the sun, the darkness still thick in the small room she calls home. The world outside is quiet, but her mind races—bills to pay, tasks piling up, an endless list that stretches before her. She moves through the morning like a shadow, her footsteps barely making a sound on the cold floor as she heads to the kitchen.

The tea kettle's whistle breaks the silence. She wraps her hands around the cup, savoring the warmth, letting it seep into her bones. This is her only moment of peace, the brief time she has to herself before the world crashes in with its demands. She breathes in the steam, trying to clear her head, but the thoughts keep coming—her children, her husband's health, the job she never wanted but had to take.

As she sips her tea, her mind drifts back to mornings that once buzzed with a different kind of energy. She used to wake up early, eager for a glimpse of Anand at the college gates, his smile brightening her whole day. They would meet at a small café near campus, lose track of time, talking about everything and nothing, weaving dreams about a future they never thought could slip away.

There were moments when she almost said something, almost let him in on the depth of her feelings. Like that time they were at the beach, the wind in her hair, and he was looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see right through her. She had opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat, replaced by a shy smile. She’d convinced herself it was better this way, that waiting was wise. But now, as she looks back, she wonders if it was just fear, masquerading as patience.

She gets everyone ready, her hands moving quickly, efficiently, but her mind is somewhere else. She thinks about the office, about the files stacked on her desk, the typewriter clattering relentlessly. She thinks about Anand, the way his presence lingers in the air even when he’s not there. She thinks about the past, about the life she could have had, and the life she chose instead.

The bus ride is the same every day—crowded, noisy, filled with the jostling of bodies and the city pressing against her skin. She stares out the window, but she doesn’t see anything. Her thoughts are far away, tangled in memories she tries not to touch, in a life she’s living but not really living. She remembers the last time she saw Anand before their paths diverged under the weight of family obligations. There was an unspoken promise in the way he looked at her, a silent assurance that they would find a way to be together. She believed him because she needed to believe in something, even if they never quite said it aloud.

When she steps off the bus, the office building looms ahead, its old, crumbling façade a reflection of the tiredness she feels deep in her bones. She takes a deep breath, adjusts her saree, and walks toward the entrance. Another day. Another round of duties. Another set of memories to push down and ignore.

---

The office—it’s been there longer than most of the people who work inside it. Built in a time when the world was different, when Mumbai was still Bombay, and the future looked bright. But that was before the years took their toll, before the dreams of the people who worked there faded into the same gray as the peeling paint on the walls.

There’s an old clock on the wall near the entrance, a relic from a time when the office was new and its purpose still clear. The clock stopped working years ago, its hands frozen at 3:15—a time that now feels like a permanent reminder that this place, and the lives within it, are stuck, unable to move forward. Every day, as Anand and Lakshmi and hundreds other walk past it, they glance at those frozen hands, a subconscious acknowledgment of their lives being in a stuck stupor.

On Lakshmi’s desk, there’s a small plant in a cracked ceramic pot. She doesn’t remember when she brought it in—perhaps a gift from a colleague, or something she picked up on a whim during a rare moment of optimism. The plant used to be green and full of life, its leaves reaching for the sunlight that barely filtered through the dirty office windows. But now, it’s wilted, its leaves yellowed and brittle, a mirror of the exhaustion that’s taken root inside her. Every day, she pours a little water into the pot, hoping it might revive, but deep down, she knows it’s a lost cause.

The broken clock, the dying plant—they’re small details, but to Anand and Lakshmi, they’re constant reminders of the decay that’s settled into their lives, the slow, relentless erosion of everything they once believed in.

The office is alive, but not in the way that matters. It's a machine, grinding away day after day, and Anand is just one of its many cogs. His desk is a mess of papers, forms, and files, each one a reminder of the work that never ends. He moves through the day like he's stuck on a loop, signing his name on documents that don't mean anything, typing up reports that no one will read.

The typewriter clicks away like a metronome, marking time that feels like it’s barely moving.

Lakshmi is close enough to touch but might as well be a world away. She's a blur of motion at her desk, her fingers dancing over the keys, her eyes locked on the page in front of her like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. There's a precision to the way she works, a kind of mechanical grace that comes from doing the same thing over and over until it becomes second nature. But there's something else too—something in the way her hands sometimes pause, just for a fraction of a second, like she's remembering something she's not supposed to.

They don’t talk much. When they do, it’s the kind of talk that doesn’t mean anything. A nod when they pass each other, a few words about a file that needs to be done, a glance that holds too much history to be comfortable. The office is full of people, but there’s a strange loneliness between them, a silence that’s almost palpable. It’s like they’re both wearing armor, keeping their distance because they know that if they let the past in, it’ll break them.

The hours drag. The clock on some walls ticks away (on some it is stuck...), each second a reminder that time is passing, even if it feels like it’s standing still. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh, unforgiving light on everything—on the faded walls, on the stacks of files that never seem to get any smaller, on the tired faces of the people who work here. The noise of Mumbai is just outside, a constant hum of life, but in here, it’s like the world has been put on mute.

Lunchtime comes and goes. They sit in the break room, not too close, not too far, both of them pretending not to notice the other. They eat in silence, the food tasteless, just fuel to get them through the rest of the day. Anand catches himself looking at her sometimes, wondering what she’s thinking, if she’s thinking about him, about the life they almost had.

But he doesn’t ask. He never does. He doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer.

Lakshmi knows when he’s watching. She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t need to. She knows what’s in his mind because it’s in hers too. The memories are there, always there, just beneath the surface, but they’re old, like photographs that have started to fade. She’s learned to live with them, learned to push them down until they don’t hurt anymore. Or at least, not as much.

The afternoon drags on. The office starts to empty, people packing up and heading home, eager to leave this place behind. Anand and Lakshmi are the last to go, finishing up the work that keeps them here longer than they need to be. There’s something comforting about the empty office, about the silence that settles in when everyone else is gone. It’s easier to breathe when there’s no one around to remind them of what they’ve lost.

Finally, as the day fades into evening, they gather their things and prepare to leave. There’s a moment, just before they walk out the door, when their eyes meet—just for a second, but it’s enough. Enough to remind them of everything they don’t say, everything they’ve left unsaid for years. Then the moment is gone, and they step out into the streets of Mumbai, where the noise and the lights swallow them up.

One day, another day, every day...passed.

---

The past is a tricky thing...

It never really goes away—it just hides in the corners of your mind, waiting for the right moment to resurface. For Anand and Lakshmi, it’s always there, just beneath the surface, like a song you can’t quite get out of your head, no matter how hard you try.

They were once different people, back when the world was full of possibilities. Back when they were young and reckless, and the future was something they talked about like it was a promise, not a gamble. They met in college, two kids who were more interested in each other than in their studies. He was drawn to her quiet strength, the way she seemed to know exactly who she was and where she was going. She was captivated by his confidence, the way he made her feel like she was the only person in the room when he looked at her.

It was the kind of love that made everything else fade into the background. They spent their days skipping classes to sit under the banyan tree, sharing dreams and secrets in the quiet spaces between their words, and their nights walking the empty streets, where their silences spoke volumes about a future they were certain was theirs. They were going to change the world, or at least their little corner of it. They felt they were different, better than the generation that came before them, even though they never put their feelings into words.

But life has a way of dismantling the dreams you build when you’re young. Family obligations, societal expectations, and the relentless pressure to conform slowly eroded the future they had envisioned together. Unspoken promises and silent hopes became collateral damage. Anand found himself rooted in Mumbai, bound by the responsibility of caring for his aging parents, while Lakshmi faced an arranged marriage, a path chosen by her family that did not encompass the dreams she had quietly nurtured. Their unvoiced aspirations and lives drifted apart, overshadowed by the weight of their new realities.

Yet the past has a way of resurfacing, no matter how much distance one tries to put between it and the present. Working in the same office was never part of their design, but here they are, day after day, confronting each other in a world that reminds them of what might have been. Every document they pass, every accidental touch, every lingering glance—these moments pull them back to the silent connection they once shared, a constant reminder of the future they never lived and the emotions they never expressed.

---

Then came the file...

It wasn’t just any file. It was the kind that had been passed from desk to desk for months, maybe even years. The kind of file everyone tries to avoid because it's a tangled mess of bureaucracy, red tape, and forgotten promises. When it landed on Anand’s desk that morning, thick with dust and marked with tea stains, he knew it would be trouble. It was a land dispute, the kind that stretches on for decades, involving a small piece of land on the outskirts of the city—a piece of land that had become a battlefield between the government and a family that refused to leave.

The government wanted the land for a development project, something about a flyover and a shopping complex. But the family, who had lived there for generations, wasn’t giving up. They had lost everything except this land, and now, it serendipitously fell to Anand and Lakshmi to untangle the mess and find a way forward. It meant hours of sifting through old documents, reading letters filled with desperate pleas, and legal reports as dry as the paper they were printed on.

As they worked through the file, one detail stood out, a small piece of information that seemed almost insignificant at first—a description of the land itself. It wasn’t just any plot; it was a small farm, barely more than an acre, with a single banyan tree standing at its center, its roots stretching deep into the earth, its branches wide and sheltering.

As Anand read about the banyan tree, he was transported back to another time, beneath his and hers and their own banyan tree. He couldn't stop the emotions flooding in, of the countless afternoons spent, countless conversations had, discussing everything and nothing, the dreams and futures. The tree had been their sanctuary, a place where they could be close without ever putting their true emotions into words. It was as if the world fell away, leaving only their silent, unspoken connection.

He glanced across the desk at Lakshmi, wondering if she remembered. She was staring at the same document, her eyes fixed on the description of the tree. He could see the flicker of recognition in her expression, the way her hands stilled on the page as the past rushed back to meet the present.

For Lakshmi, the banyan tree was a symbol of everything she had lost. That tree had been their refuge, a place where she had felt safe, where the pressures of family and society couldn’t reach her. It was where she had first allowed herself to dream of a different life, a life with Anand. But like the land in the file, that dream had been taken from her, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the memory.

As they continued to work through the file, the banyan tree became a silent witness to their shared past. The family’s fight to keep their land, to protect the tree that had stood for generations, felt deeply personal to both of them. For them it became an exercise of holding on to something that mattered, something that connected them to who they once were. The family’s desperate struggle to hold onto their land mirrored their own battle to hold onto the love they had once shared. As they sat there, side by side, they couldn’t help but feel the echoes of their past in the story that unfolded before them.

By the time they reached the end of the file, the office was dark, the only light coming from the desk lamp that cast long shadows on the walls. They were both tired, their eyes burning from hours of reading, their minds heavy with the weight of the decisions they would have to make.

Lakshmi closed the file, her hand lingering on the cover for a moment before she spoke. “We’ll have to take this up with the Manager. There’s no way we can resolve this on our own.”

Anand nodded, but he didn’t move to gather the papers. He just sat there, staring at the closed file, his mind drifting to the family whose fate now rested in their hands. “It’s not fair,” he said quietly. “They’ve done everything right, but it’s not going to be enough. The government will get what it wants in the end.”

Lakshmi didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her voice was soft, almost resigned. “That’s how it always is, isn’t it? We do what we can, but in the end, it’s out of our hands.”

They sat in silence for a long time, the file between them like a barrier they couldn’t cross. The past, the memories, the love they had lost—it was all there, unspoken but understood. And in that silence, they found a kind of closure, a quiet acceptance of the lives they were living, the choices they had made.

When they finally left the office, the streets of Mumbai were empty, the city wrapped in the soft, muted light of the early morning. They walked together, not saying anything, but knowing that something had shifted between them.

---

Days blur together...

Each one dragging the same weary weight of routine. The file has become a constant presence, looming over Anand and Lakshmi like an unspoken challenge—a reminder of everything they’ve tried to forget.

Anand’s mind is rarely at rest. Even when he’s home, his thoughts drift back to the office, to the file, to Lakshmi. He’s caught in a web of worry—about his daughter’s school fees, about the rising costs of living in a city that seems determined to push him out, about the way his life has become something he barely recognizes. Every day is a battle to keep his head above water, to make sure his family has what they need, even if it means sacrificing everything he once wanted for himself.

One evening, as Anand sits at the kitchen table on a Friday evening, flipping through old papers and receipts, his wife enters, her face lined with exhaustion.

“How was the office today?” she asks, trying to mask her concern with a casual tone.

Anand looks up, his face etched with frustration. “The same as always. I am still working on that file about the family dispute. I know how these stories end. I have seen it too many times. The government will get what it wants, and the family will be left with nothing but memories of a place that used to be theirs”

His wife sighs, her shoulders sagging. “I know, Anand. I wish the family gets at least something out of this...I’m worried about the school fees for Aisha too. With the way things are going, I’m not sure how we’ll make the next payment and I don't know how we will be able to buy the books that she needs”

Anand’s jolts back into his reality and his own problems, his expression resigned as he listens. “I’m doing everything I can...”

Meanwhile, Lakshmi’s struggles are quieter, more hidden, but they’re no less heavy. She’s learned to keep her worries to herself, to carry them like a burden she can’t put down. Her husband’s health is failing and fast, her mother needs expensive medication, and the money she brings home from the office is barely enough to cover the basics.

One day, Lakshmi sits with her mother in their modest living room, the air heavy with unspoken concerns. Her mother, looking frail, looks at her with worry.

“Lakshmi, how are things at work?” her mother asks, her voice trembling.

Lakshmi forces a smile, though her eyes betray her exhaustion. “It’s the same, Mom. The pay isn’t enough, but it’s all we’ve got. I just hope we can manage until the end of the month.”

Her mother reaches out, taking her hand in a gesture of solidarity. “I know you’re doing your best. I just wish things were different.”

Lakshmi squeezes her mother’s hand, feeling the weight of her sacrifices and unfulfilled dreams. “So do I. But for now, we have to make do. We’ll get through this, just like we always do.”

Her mind wanders to the family in the file, about the letters they’ve written, pleading for mercy, for understanding. She thinks about the choices she’s made, the life she’s built, and wonders if it’s enough. She’s given up so much—her dreams, her ambitions, her chance at a different kind of life. And for what? A job that barely pays the bills and leaves her feeling empty, a life that’s more about survival than living.

Their struggles are different, but they share the same sense of being trapped, of being caught in a life that feels too small for the dreams they once had. They don’t talk about it often with each other, but the weight of their unspoken struggles hangs in the air between them, like a secret they’re both keeping.

In the quiet moments, when the office is still and the only sound is the rustle of papers, they notice things about each other.

Anand sees the dark circles under Lakshmi’s eyes, the way her hands sometimes tremble when she thinks no one is looking. He knows her burdens are heavy, perhaps heavier than his own. There’s a part of him that wants to reach out, to ask if she’s okay, but the words never come. Instead, he watches her from across the room, and it’s in those moments that he decides to put her needs before his own. He starts setting aside small amounts of money, skipping his morning chai at the corner stall, thinking he could use that money to do something kind for her, something to ease her burden, even if just a little.

Lakshmi notices things too—the way Anand’s shoulders sag at the end of the day, the way he sighs as he looks over the bills he pulls out of his bag. She knows he’s worried about his daughter, about how he’ll manage to keep up with the rising costs. She’s heard him on the phone, his voice tight with frustration as he talks to the school about payment plans. She knows he’s struggling, and it tugs at something deep inside her, a compassion she hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s in these moments that she starts to think about what she can do to help, to lighten his load. She begins to save what little she can, even if it means skipping meals or going without something she needs, thinking she could buy something for his daughter, something that might make a difference.

One day, as they sit together in the office, working on the file, the power goes out. The office falls into darkness, the hum of the lights replaced by an almost eerie silence. They’re alone, the rest of the staff having left hours ago, and for the first time in years, they find themselves with nothing to do but talk.

Anand breaks the silence first, his voice low, almost hesitant. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we ended up here, working on this together.”

Lakshmi looks at him, her face lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. “Strange, yes. But maybe it’s also…fitting.”

He nods, not really sure what to say. There’s so much between them, so much history, so many things left unsaid. But now, in the dark, it feels like maybe they can finally talk about it, about everything.

“I never wanted this life,” Anand admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I wanted to fight, to make my own decisions, my own life. But…things didn’t work out that way.”

Lakshmi listens, her heart heavy with the weight of her own unspoken regrets. “I know,” she says quietly. “I had dreams too. But life…life had other plans.”

They sit in silence for a while, the darkness around them feeling almost like a cocoon, wrapping them in the safety of the night. The past is there, hovering just out of reach, but neither of them tries to pull it closer. They’ve both learned to live with it, to let it be a part of them without letting it define them.

Eventually, the power comes back on, the harsh fluorescent lights flickering to life, breaking the spell of the moment. They return to their work, but something has shifted between them—a silent understanding, a shared sense of acceptance.

As they gather their things and prepare to leave, Anand and Lakshmi exchange a glance that says more than words ever could. They know they can’t change the past, can’t rewrite the choices they’ve made, but they can face the future together, even if it’s just as colleagues, as two people who share the same silent burdens.

They walk out into the night, side by side, the noise of the city swallowing them up. But this time, the silence between them is comforting, not heavy. They’ve found a kind of peace, a quiet acceptance of the lives they’re living, and for now, that’s enough.

The days after the power outage slip into a strange rhythm. The silence that used to hang between Anand and Lakshmi feels less like a barrier and more like a shared space—a place where they can exist without the need for words.

---

But then comes the meeting...

They knew it was coming, knew that eventually, they’d have to present their findings to the Manager, to explain the situation and make their recommendations. But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier. As they prepare, going over the details one last time, there’s a tension in the air, a sense that this isn’t just about the file, that this meeting is about something bigger.

The office is a different place on the day of the meeting—busier, noisier, as if everyone is trying to get things done before the Manager arrives. Anand and Lakshmi barely speak as they review the documents, their focus on the task at hand. But underneath, there’s an undercurrent of something unspoken, a sense that this is a turning point, not just for the file, but for them.

The meeting room is cold, the air conditioning turned up too high, as if to keep everyone awake. The Manager and his team file in, each one with a look of impatience, as if they have more important things to do than listen to two lower-level employees talk about a land dispute that should have been resolved years ago.

Anand starts the presentation, his voice steady but with a slight edge of tension. He goes over the history, the facts, the endless back-and-forth between the government and the family. Lakshmi follows, detailing the legal complications, the petitions, the way the family has fought to keep their home despite the odds. They work in tandem, passing the narrative back and forth, their voices blending together into a single, coherent story.

But as they talk, it becomes clear that the higher-ups aren’t interested in the details. They’re looking for a solution, a way to clear the file off their desks and move on to the next issue. When Anand and Lakshmi finish, there’s a long pause, a silence that feels almost oppressive, before one of the higher-ups finally speaks.

“This has been going on too long,” he says, his voice clipped and impatient. “We need to move forward. The development is a priority. The family needs to be relocated, and we need to clear the land.”

Anand feels a knot tighten in his chest. He knew this was coming, knew that the government’s needs would outweigh the family’s pleas, but hearing it said so bluntly still feels like a blow. He looks at Lakshmi, sees the same tightness in her expression, the same quiet resignation.

They both know what’s going to happen. The family will lose their land, their home, the place they’ve fought so hard to keep. The government will get what it wants, and Anand and Lakshmi will have to live with the knowledge that they were part of it.

But then something unexpected happens.

As the higher-ups begin to discuss the logistics, the compensation package, the timeline for the relocation, Lakshmi speaks up. Her voice is soft, but there’s a steeliness to it that catches everyone’s attention.

“There’s another way,” she says, and the room falls silent.

She explains her idea—a compromise that would allow the family to keep part of their land, a small section that holds the most personal significance to them, while the rest is used for the development. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s something, a way to give the family a piece of what they’ve fought for without derailing the government’s plans.

There’s a moment of hesitation, a sense of uncertainty among the higher-ups. It’s clear they hadn’t considered this option, hadn’t thought beyond the binary choice of all or nothing. But Lakshmi’s proposal is compelling, and as she speaks, Anand can see the doubt starting to creep into their expressions.

The discussion is tense, filled with back-and-forth arguments, but eventually, the higher-ups agree to consider the compromise. They give Anand and Lakshmi more time to work out the details, to see if it can be done in a way that satisfies everyone.

As they leave the meeting room, there’s a feeling of cautious optimism between them, a sense that maybe, just maybe, they can make a difference. But there’s also a heaviness, a weight of the responsibility that’s now on their shoulders.

Outside the office, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the city. They walk together, not saying much, but there’s a new understanding between them, a shared sense of purpose. They know the fight isn’t over, that there’s still a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, they feel like they’re on the same side.

The turning point isn’t just about the file—it’s about them, about the way they’ve started to see each other again, not as distant memories, but as people who are still here, still trying to find their way. And as they part ways at the end of the day, there’s a sense of something unspoken, something that might lead to a new beginning.

---

The file is complete...

Anand and Lakshmi submit it with little fanfare, just another task checked off a long list of bureaucratic duties. The family will keep a fraction of their land, the rest claimed for development. It's a compromise—a word that’s as hollow as it sounds.

That evening, Anand leaves a neatly wrapped package on Lakshmi’s desk. A new saree, simple but elegant, with a note: “You deserve something nice for all you do. –Anand.”

At the same time, Lakshmi places a stack of textbooks on Anand’s chair, tied together with twine. “For your daughter. Thought this might help. –Lakshmi.”

When they each discover the other’s gift, the weight of irony settles in, cold and heavy. Anand’s daughter just received a scholarship that covers all her educational needs—books included. Lakshmi’s husband, once so frail and ailing, had recently been prescribed new medication through a government health program that miraculously eased his condition. The small pension increase he received last week meant she was finally planning to buy herself a new saree, something she hadn’t done in years.

It’s the timing that twists the knife. Just days ago, these gifts would have meant everything. They would have been symbols of thoughtfulness, small tokens of care in a world that often feels indifferent. But now, standing in the dim light of the empty office, they are relics of good intentions that missed their moment.

Anand stands there, holding the textbooks, his hand gripping the twine. The irony isn't lost on him—the scholarship announcement had arrived just this morning, and he’d been so relieved, so proud of his daughter for achieving what he’d feared he couldn’t provide. And now, here were these books, a symbol of sacrifice that was no longer needed.

Lakshmi fingers the edge of the saree, feeling the fabric slip through her hands. For years, she had put aside her own desires, scraping together money for her family’s needs, always putting herself last. The thought of a new saree had been a distant luxury, something she didn’t dare dream of. And yet, here it was, at the very moment she could finally afford one for herself.

The sacrifices they made—carefully saving money they didn’t really have, worrying more about each other’s needs than their own—have become unnecessary, almost meaningless in the face of these new developments.

But as they stand there, staring at the tokens of their care, there’s no shared laughter, no moment of mutual understanding—just a quiet acknowledgment of the futility of their efforts. The room feels colder, the distance between them more pronounced.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. The realization hits hard, sinking deep into the silence between them: They’ve been trying to mend something broken, something that cannot be fixed by small gestures or well-intentioned gifts. The reality of their lives—of everything they’ve sacrificed, everything they’ve lost—looms large, casting long shadows over the brief moment of connection they shared.

And so, they walk away, leaving the gifts untouched, unclaimed. The office, once filled with the hum of their quiet companionship, now echoes with the finality of what they’ve both come to understand.

Sometimes, the things we give up for others are the very things they no longer need.

Sometimes, the sacrifices we make mean nothing at all.

And sometimes, there’s no victory to be found, no solace in knowing you tried. Just the cold, hard truth that life moves on, indifferent to the small, fleeting moments we thought would matter.

Anand and Lakshmi return to their lives, their routines, their separate worlds. They keep moving forward, but the irony of their sacrifices lingers, a quiet reminder of all that was lost in the giving.