Leela grew older but the world didn't grow quieter. At university, she met Amit, a bright-eyed sociology student with a soft voice and scars he didn't speak about. They bonded over late-night tea, trading stories of sleeplessness and family expectations. Amit's dreams were haunted by his father's anger—a simmering force that had shaped his childhood. Sometimes, his hands would tremble when he drank his tea, memories flickering behind careful eyes.Leela recognized that trembling: her hands did it too, in exam rooms and crowded buses. She told Amit about the night her father's accident changed everything; how her mother worked two jobs and never mentioned happiness. Together, they studied cycles—of violence, silence, and survival. They wondered aloud if these patterns could ever truly be broken, or if each generation was destined to echo the last.One night, Leela called her grandmother. The old woman's voice shook as she described her own journey—ripped from home by soldiers, forced to walk for days, losing brothers without graves. Listening, Leela felt her chest tighten; the weight of inherited loss pressed into her bones, as if trauma passed through blood rather than memories.In her helpline work, Leela listened to stories like these every day. She answered a call from an elderly man who had survived partition, lost his family, and still couldn't sleep without nightmares. Another call was from a teenager, shunned at school, bullied relentlessly online—their pain raw and immediate, yet strangely familiar. Leela found herself absorbing these wounds, the city's pain flowing through her into the silence of her apartment.Despite everything, she clung to small comforts: the gentle touch of Amit's hand, her grandmother's humming from another room, the banyan's cool shade. Each comfort was a tiny act of resistance—a reminder that healing could begin even in the deepest darkness.
