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What if?

As Shobha sat quietly in the small waiting room, her eyes wandered over the paintings on the walls. They depicted scenes of serene landscapes—meadows, rivers, and mountains. The artwork seemed to offer solace to the troubled minds that visited this place.


Yet, she couldn’t help but notice the faint outlines of chaos in the brushstrokes, as though the painter was trying to contain something tumultuous within. 


The young doctor at the reception, stealing glances at her, finally looked away as Shobha caught his eye. She was wearing a blue overcoat over her thin figure and long legs. Her straight brown hair almost touched her waist.


There was a calmness about her that was almost unsettling. It was as if she carried the weight of a thousand secrets, but none of them showed on her composed face. 


When her turn came, she walked into the psychiatrist’s room. The man sitting behind the desk looked exactly as she had imagined—dark black hair, broad shoulders, spectacles perched delicately on his long nose, and a long grey coat with a black sweater underneath.


He stood up to greet her, his movements precise and deliberate, as though every gesture was measured. “Shobha,” he said, his voice a blend of warmth and authority. 


“I’m Dr. Iyer. Please, take a seat.” Shobha sat down, her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Dr. Iyer studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes observing the subtle shifts in her posture, the faint tightening of her jaw. 


“I understand you’re here for... anxiety?” he began, his tone inviting. Shobha nodded, her gaze steady. 

“Yes. Anxiety. And... restlessness.” Dr. Iyer leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together. 

“Anxiety often has a root cause. Something buried deep, sometimes too deep for us to recognise immediately. Would you like to talk about what’s been troubling you?” 


For a moment, Shobha hesitated.  Then, with a voice as steady as her gaze, she said, “Sometimes, Doctor, we don’t come here to heal. Sometimes, we come here to understand.”


Dr. Iyer raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Understand what?” “What it means to be broken,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The room fell silent. 


Dr. Iyer’s professional demeanour faltered for a brief second, replaced by something almost imperceptible—recognition. It was as if her words had reached a part of him he had locked away long ago. “Shobha,”


he said, leaning forward, “what do you hope to find in that understanding?” 


She looked at him, her calm exterior momentarily giving way to something raw and vulnerable. “A sense of purpose. Or... an answer.” Dr. Iyer nodded slowly, his expression softening. “Perhaps, in understanding each other, we can find those answers.”


As the session progressed, Dr. Iyer’s questions became more probing, and Shobha’s responses grew more revealing. 


By the end of the hour, it was clear that this wasn’t just a therapy session—it was a meeting of two fractured souls, each seeking something the other might unknowingly provide. And as Shobha left the room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen those sharp, observing eyes before. 


Somewhere in the distant past, in a memory she couldn’t quite place. Meanwhile, Dr. Iyer sat back in his chair, staring at the door long after she had gone. He, too, felt the faint echoes of familiarity, a sense of recognition that unnerved him as much as it intrigued him.






Shobha returned for her second session with an air of quiet anticipation. She stepped into the small room, her eyes lingering on the paintings once again. This time, she noticed a new piece hanging by the window—a stormy sea crashing against jagged cliffs. The chaos in the brushstrokes felt raw, unrestrained, yet strangely cathartic.


Dr. Iyer followed her gaze. “That one’s new,” he said, motioning toward the painting. “I finished it just last week.”


“You painted this?” Shobha asked, her surprise evident.


He nodded, his expression unreadable. “It’s... a way of making sense of things.”


As she sat down, she said, “The chaos—it’s almost alive. I can feel it.”


Dr. Iyer smiled faintly. “Sometimes, chaos is all we have to work with.”


The session began quietly, but soon their conversation shifted to deeper terrain. Shobha traced the lines of her scarf, her voice steady but low. “I broke off my engagement to become a pilot,” she confessed. “My parents were devastated.






My father didn’t speak to me for months. Even when I succeeded—even when I became the first woman pilot in my airline—they only cared about one thing: when I’d get married.”


Dr. Iyer leaned forward, his tone gentle. “And how did you feel about that?”


“I tried,” Shobha said, a small, bitter laugh escaping her. “I got engaged again. I thought if I could love someone, maybe it would make them happy. But I fell out of love before the wedding. I think... I think I was trying to escape something.”


Dr. Iyer tilted his head, his gaze steady. “Escape what?”


“Being alone,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “But I’ve realized it’s better to be alone than to live a lie.”


The room grew quiet, the weight of her words settling between them. Dr. Iyer took a breath, his fingers tracing the edge of his notebook. “I understand what it means to live with regret,” he said softly. 

“Years ago, I made a mistake. I missed the signs in a young patient—a boy with severe anxiety. I thought I had time, that he’d come back for another session. But he didn’t.”


Shobha’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, letting him continue.

“He took his life,” Dr. Iyer said, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “I left practice for months after that. Painting was the only way I could keep myself afloat.”

“And now?” Shobha asked, her gaze searching his.

Dr. Iyer hesitated, then said, “Now, I carry him with me. Every patient, every painting—it’s a reminder of the lives I’ve failed and the lives I can still touch.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the storm of emotions between them palpable. Shobha finally said, “You couldn’t save him, Doctor. But maybe you’ve saved others because of him.”

Dr. Iyer nodded, though the pain in his eyes didn’t fade. “And maybe you’ve done the same—for the women who will follow your path.”

Their eyes met, and in that shared moment, something shifted. It wasn’t just a doctor and a patient sitting in that room; it was two people, scarred but resilient, finding fragments of themselves in each other.

As Shobha stood to leave, her voice softened. “Maybe we’re not meant to escape the chaos. Maybe we’re just meant to live with it.”

Dr. Iyer smiled faintly, watching as she walked toward the door. “And maybe that’s enough.”

That night, Shobha returned to her apartment, pulling out her flight logbook and running her fingers over its pages. Across town, Dr. Iyer stood before his easel, painting a lone figure soaring above the stormy sea, their wings outstretched against the chaos below.


The following sessions deepened their bond, though neither of them acknowledged the growing tension. Shobha and Dr. Iyer delved into topics that neither had spoken of to anyone else—moments of failure, fears of insignificance, and the weight of expectations. Each session seemed to strip away another layer of their defenses, leaving them raw yet lighter.

One evening, Shobha arrived looking different. Her usual calm was replaced with an undercurrent of restlessness. She sat down, her hands clutching the strap of her bag.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said abruptly.

Dr. Iyer looked at her with quiet curiosity. “What kind of decision?”

“I’ve resigned from my job,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm in her eyes. “I don’t want to fly anymore.”

This caught him off guard. “You’ve worked so hard to get there. What’s changed?”

Shobha hesitated, then said, “I thought being a pilot would free me. And for a while, it did. But somewhere along the way, I realized I was running—not toward my dreams, but away from myself. I was trying to prove something to my parents, to society, even to myself. But the truth is... I don’t love it anymore.”

Dr. Iyer leaned back, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. “And what do you love?”

She looked at him, her eyes reflecting a quiet determination. “I want to help others find their wings—not in the sky, but in their lives. I’ve been thinking about teaching. Not flying, but mentoring young girls from small towns who want to break barriers like I did.”

Dr. Iyer smiled faintly. “That’s a brave decision.”

“Is it?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “It feels like I’m giving up.”

“No,” he said gently. “It sounds like you’re finally choosing yourself.”

Their sessions continued, but something had shifted. Shobha began speaking less of her past and more of her plans. She applied for programs that would train her in mentoring and youth development.


She started visiting community centers, volunteering her time. Her transformation was quiet yet profound—a woman who had spent her life fighting expectations now carving a path defined by her own terms.


Dr. Iyer, too, felt the change. His paintings grew bolder, more vivid. He began showcasing his work in galleries, stepping out of the shadows of his regrets. Yet, with each passing session, he felt the inevitability of their separation looming.


One evening, as Shobha prepared to leave, she turned to him and said, “Doctor, I think I’ve found my answer.”

“And what is it?” he asked, his voice calm but tinged with an unspoken sadness.

“That it’s okay to let go,” she said, her smile faint but resolute. “Of the past. Of people. Of things that no longer serve us.”

Dr. Iyer nodded, though her words struck a chord he wasn’t ready to confront. “And where will this take you?”

“Forward,” she said simply.

The silence stretched, neither of them moving, neither of them looking away. Finally, Shobha stood, reaching for the door. Her hand paused on the handle. “If things were different…” she began, then stopped, her voice breaking. Dr. Iyer’s grip tightened on the edge of his desk. “But they’re not.” She nodded, not trusting herself to speak again. The door clicked shut behind her, and the sound echoed like a finality neither of them was ready to face. 


Later that night, Dr. Iyer sat in his dimly lit office, staring at the empty chair across from him. His brush rested against a half-finished canvas, the strokes erratic, as though his hand couldn’t commit to a shape. He stared at it for hours, unable to paint, unable to stop. Shobha stood in her apartment, her suitcase half-packed. 


On the desk lay a flight logbook, its pages untouched in weeks. Next to it was an envelope with the name of a mentorship program scrawled on the front. She picked it up, her thumb running over the seal, her breath catching in her throat. Neither slept that night. Neither knew if they’d made the right choice. But both felt the weight of what they had left behind—a connection that had come too close to being something neither of them was prepared to name. 


The next morning, Shobha’s flight logbook was gone, replaced by a new journal with blank pages waiting to be filled. Dr. Iyer’s easel remained untouched, the storm in the painting forever unfinished. 


And somewhere in the silence of their separate lives, the question lingered: What if?



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