Digital Echoes

Sipping his morning tea, he scrolled through his phone, a routine pilgrimage to the social media feed. His eye caught the calendar notifications, little blue flags marking the day's special dates. "Send wishes; it's..." The prompt jarred him. ‘Too early in the day to wish any’, and he mentally pushed the task away, but the same reminders echoed across his social platforms: three birthdays. One name, however, brought a sharp, cold recognition: Vik. Vik had been gone for a while now.

The digital reminder was a small, cruel trigger. It drew a long, sorrowful line connecting him to the many others who had departed over the past few years—friends, colleagues, and beloved family members. Some had lived full spans, passing from natural causes. Others were tragically young, swept away by accidents, difficult lifestyle choices, or the merciless wave of the pandemic.

He realized then that their names still populated his contact lists; their timelines remained, ghostly active, in his feeds. "Perhaps it's time to sever these digital ties," he quietly mused. With a sigh, he navigated to his friends list, a desire for closure finally nudging him toward the profiles of the departed—more than a dozen faces now fixed in time.

He started clicking, intending to unlink, to archive the past.

But he couldn't do it.

With each profile he visited, a rush of bittersweet memories overwhelmed the practical need for deletion. There were pictures of shared laughter, nostalgic check-ins from forgotten trips, and inside jokes immortalized in comment threads. This was, he realized with a sudden, aching clarity, the last tangible connection he had left to these cherished people. He had loved their company, valued their friendship, and held onto every shared moment.

A new, warm thought settled over the cold intention of deletion. "Perhaps this isn't a flaw in the system, but a gentle grace," he thought, the early light warming his hands around the mug. "Maybe this is the universe, utilizing the very tools of technology, to gift me a simple, necessary task: to remember them on their days of celebration, and to hold their light a little longer."

The contact lists and friendships remained untouched. He closed his phone, a feeling of deep-seated peace and enduring love replacing the earlier discomfort. He couldn’t  send a message to the departed, but he could greet the day in his own way. In the quiet hope that they too acknowledged that they were fondly remembered. 

The Thud

The pain wasn’t searing. It was a dull thud. Like the sound made by a sack of grain when you drop it to the floor. Thud. The feeling within, too, was dull. She felt distant from herself, as though submerged in water or trapped in a dream, her awareness hazy. She dealt with the pain as if it belonged to someone else.

The breakup happened out of the blue, just when she was expecting their relationship to turn into something larger, more meaningful. The blow felt like one from a hammer. Thud. Strong, yet heavy and dull. She struggled to process the what, why, and how of it, but her brain felt slow and heavy, like the very hammer that had hit her.

There were no major fights, no unbridgeable differences. Yet he had dumped her and walked away, like dropping a weight by accident at the gym. Thud. He had told her his reason, but to her, it felt silly and stupid. She couldn’t even get her emotions out in the form of tears. Everything felt frozen inside.

She applied for leave and headed to her hometown, assuming a few days with her loving—but clueless about her love life—parents would help her process her plight. It was festival time, but she couldn’t participate in any of the fervor. She heard the same real-life thud as her mom and dad pounded away the rice to prepare kajjaya, the traditional sweet. Her heart thudded too. Her perceptive mom asked if everything was alright, and she carefully avoided talking about him. Why bother them and make them worry more?

He wasn’t a bad guy, far from it. He had stood by her during their six years together. In his company, she had grown, shedding her morose, sad veneer. She had learned to embrace happiness and stay happy, letting go of the fear that sadness was lurking, waiting to pounce. He had taught her how not to nurse grudges, how to handle fights, and, importantly, how to start every day afresh. Yet today, it felt as if all those lessons were merely preparation for this eventuality, thudding down to terra firma.

Who was to blame? Did he cause it? Was she responsible? Did she ignore any signs? The more she thought about it, the more her heart thudded. She knew she was slipping into depression, and she didn’t know a way out. When friends asked, she struggled to respond; she couldn’t blame him. He and she still exchanged messages and tended to the pets they both had raised—she brought them to her place whenever he traveled instead of letting them stay at a pet minder. She wondered if she wasn’t willing to let go, secretly expecting him to reconcile. Her struggles were accentuated further by the fact that she was a therapist herself!

Months passed. She still stayed stuck. He didn’t tell her he had begun dating someone else, nor did he let her in on his plans to move out of the country and marry the person he was newly invested in. But the news still reached her ears. Had he broken up because he found this new person, or was this after they broke up? She concluded she would never know. It shouldn’t matter—it was in the past. But it did, because she still lived in the past in her head, moping daily about her memories, and struggling to see life beyond the breakup.

Her older, perceptive brother reached out and gently asked her to talk to him. “I’ve noticed how you’re struggling to look normal. I know it’s a façade. Do not hide. You know you can share with me.” With great reluctance, and also to unburden herself, she told him bits and pieces. “My little one, you’re struggling to seek help. Let go of your embarrassment about approaching another. You cannot be your own therapist.” He had struck at the root of the matter. She agreed to see one.

One session led to some more. She liked the conversations with the therapist and finally realized what she had failed to do.

She contacted her ex and said she wanted to talk. She finally told him, her heart thudding away, what she felt about the breakup and the impact it had had on her, calling him out for being an asshole who had made her feel the fault was hers while he might have been planning his exit all along. She knew now the real problem wasn't the weight he dropped, but the heavy weight of silence she had been carrying alone. 

A year passed. It was the same festival time, and she was back at home. She woke up to her mother pounding the rice to make the same traditional sweet. She joined her with a smile, and said, “Let me do it this time.” She brought the pestle down. It was a solid thud, but this time, it was the sound of being alive, not defeat. Her brother, who was helping their mother in the task, smiled. She smiled back, and thought, “Thank you for saving me from myself”. 

Gratitude

My face lit up, breaking into a broad smile.

Reconnecting my phone after a much-needed, internet-free holiday with my partner, I expected a deluge of work messages. What I didn't expect was the flood of congratulations. As I scrolled and read, the reason became clear: at his recent retirement farewell, a former colleague, Nagaraj, had publicly credited me with saving his life from depression and self-harm.

The memory jogged back immediately. Years ago, I was heading a different office when Nagaraj arrived, new and completely unreliable. Work was shoddy and absences were frequent. Instead of initiating disciplinary action, I asked to meet him. Nagaraj and his wife came in and revealed his severe depression, triggered by long periods of separation due to distant postings. I immediately promised them my full support, guaranteeing flexible leave and a transfer to a role where Nagaraj had once excelled, as indicated by his former colleagues. I saw to it that he had an empathetic manager, and I made a point of checking in on him myself occasionally, just to reassure him that he was safe in the office. Over time, Nagaraj’s attendance and quality of work visibly improved.

The case had faded into the background over the years and a few transfer, only briefly recalled when Nagaraj was one of three retiring officers who invited me to a joint farewell lunch just before my own beach vacation. Now, the overwhelming impact hit me.

Nagaraj’s wife had also reached out: "Grateful for the faith you reposed in him. He’s almost as good as he used to be.” 

I knew the power of that support. I had faced my own dark moments during unceremonious transfers, and I’d found solace and strength in the help of colleagues and strangers. I closed my phone. "What goes around comes around," I uttered aloud. My partner, who was observing me without a word, gave me a hug and said, “just like us”.

Falling Apart!

A dull ache in his shoulder, a new twinge in his knee - he felt like he was falling apart. This was supposed to be his peak, the moment he finally cashed in on years of work. The modelling gigs, the ad campaigns; they were his for the taking, and they were paying off big time. But the mirror, once his ally, now reflected a stranger. A tired man with dark circles under his eyes, his smile strained from clenching his jaw against the pain. He hadn't listened when his body whispered, and now it was screaming. He needed a lifeline, a sympathetic ear, and there was only one person he trusted.

He called her to meet at a sleek new cafe downtown, all minimalist decor and the strong scent of burnt sugar and espresso. She was a welcome island of calm in his storm, stirring a latte with deliberate grace.

"It started as just an ache in the shoulder," he began, "but now it's a frozen shoulder."

"Hmm," she hummed, not looking up. "The full-body equivalent of a computer freeze."

"It's worse than that. I also have sciatica, and... an ACL tear in my knee."

She finally looked up, her expression a mix of concern and dry amusement. "Dude, you're becoming a one-man hospital ward. I hope you're at least doing something about it."

"I'm in intense physiotherapy, and I've started swimming lessons. Surgeon's orders."

She smiled, a genuine crinkle around her eyes. "Good."

"Good? I'm not seeing any results!" he groaned, running a hand over his face. "As if all that wasn't enough, my tooth enamel is gone, so I have to see a dentist now, too. And then there are the migraines..."

He trailed off, listing his ailments like a shopping list for a tough laundry day. She set her cup down slowly, her gaze fixed on him. For a long, silent moment, she just stared, no longer smiling.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, suddenly defensive. "I'll overcome all of this."

She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I'm not feeling bad for you. I'm just thinking that with all the advancements in AI, you're the perfect candidate to be converted into a bionic man.”

He laughed, more sound than mirth. "Oh, come on, don't be so harsh. There are still parts of me that are alive and kicking well."

"I know," she shot back, a teasing grin spreading across her face. "But with the advancements, you may not need them."

He feigned offense. "I meant my brain, silly!"

She lifted her hands in surrender and chuckled. "I meant the same thing."

Rebirth Day

It is her birthday today. She hates it. Not because she doesn’t like to celebrate, but because of the ghosts of memories associated with it from another time.

She was twelve, brimming with an almost unbearable excitement. Today, she’d finally shed the last remnants of childhood, leaving behind the silly toys and pig tails to become a real grown-up – at least in her mind. For weeks, the house had buzzed with secret whispers and hushed plans, every deliberation over cake flavors and party games a promise of the special day to come.

Special it was, but for all the wrong reasons. Her favorite Ajji – Dad’s mother, the softest lap and kindest smile – chose that very day to die. Her father, who doted on his mother with a devotion that bordered on worship, was so utterly shattered he didn't even see her, let alone wish her. Mom, aunts, her brother – everyone offered sorrowful murmurs about her birthday becoming sad, promising a party on 'another day.'

She cried. Not just because her balloons lay deflated and her cake uncut. A sharp, ugly shard of hatred pierced through her for her beloved Ajji, for choosing this day. And that feeling, like a stubborn stain, never faded. Year after year, her father's birthday wish was an afterthought, delivered through a fog of his own maudlin grief for his dead mother.

It has been ten more summers now, each one a heavy weight marking the somber anniversary. Her real birthday remained shrouded in an inescapable gloom. But she couldn't endure it anymore. She wanted it all to change.

Desperate, she called her best friend's sympathetic mother. She, a formidable bureaucrat, was her godmother; someone she looked up to for encouragement, support, and motivation.  The second mother, without hesitation, offered to help. "We'll change it, officially," the woman had said, her voice firm and reassuring. No more trauma, no more drama on her special day. A crazy, freeing thought even surfaced: perhaps she wouldn't feel so bitter about her Ajji anymore.

But then, the thought of her father solidified, unyielding. No, she wouldn't forgive him. The acidic taste of bile rose in her throat, a familiar, burning reminder that some wounds, no matter how much you try to redefine them, refuse to heal.

Dance - Drama!

 

He used to be a fan of spicy food. However, after crossing his 40th (though you remind him of age, he gets irked) he has developed gastritis and acidity, and cannot eat spice like he used to when he was younger. Whatever might be the reasons, he blames Covid for his gastritis. “It is a side effect of having suffered covid multiple times. I got Covid twice after my vaccination”, he explains. He also points how his parents still eat spicy food and nothing happens to them. When his partner points out they too had suffered covid, he dismisses that. “Well, they’re from a different generation with better immunity”, he argues. 

As a result, everyday the cook makes two sets of food - regular spice levels for parents and partner, less spicy fare for him. He and his partner usually eat their breakfasts and dinners together. And, it’s customary for him to point out which one is the spicier version of the day’s food to his partner. 

It’s a day of several meetings, and in his rush to head to work, he doesn’t wait for his partner  to join in, and serves for himself and begins eating. The partner soon joins him in a while, and serves for self and sits next to him to eat. 

He: Did you know which one was for you?

Partner: Yes. 

He: Is it spicy?

Pr: Yes, moderately so. Not very spicy. 

He: Surprisingly, I feel my portion is spicy today. 

Pr: Did you serve yourself the other one by mistake?

He: No! My lips are already burning with this level of spice. If I were to eat yours, I’d be dancing!!

Pr: Oh then your childhood dream would come true. 

He: I wanted to do Bharatanatyam, not taandav!

Pa: Same, same but different! 

Father’s Day

 “Who do you love more?”, asked the relative who had come home to the little boy who just had shown off his talents with the tabla. “Amma, of course”, he said loudly, extricated himself from the hold of the relative and ran off to play with his friends. 

Both the parents were beaming at the response. Soon the visiting relatives were gone, and quiet prevailed at home. The wife chose to ask the husband. “Do you feel jealous that our son always says he loves me more than you?”

The husband said, “I feel proud. It was the same with me too. I always said I loved my Amma more than my Appa when anyone asked while I was a kid. It feels like my son too is continuing the tradition”. 

“I sometimes have felt a little scared that you might take it otherwise. Thought I might voice it”. 

“There’s nothing to feel scared about. It is but natural for most children to prefer one parent over the other, and the parents feigning mock disappointment, etc. But, I doubt if you’d be upset had our son preferred me more”. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. As a child I always loved my dad more”. 

“From my own growing up experience, I can say this. The love for Amma among sons stays constant throughout. While the love for Appa grows with time and age”. 

“Is that so?”

“As a kid, I remember even resenting my dad and trying to be as different from him as possible. Now, I see all that was futile”. 

“But, I don’t want our son to be like you”. 

“You mean you don’t want him to love me more as he grows older?”, he said with a smile. 

“No, bum! I don’t want him to grow up resenting and resisting his Appa”. 

“Why do women want to control everything once they’re married?”

“Because they’ve missed out on all that until then. Don’t you generalise, now. Let me call my Dad and wish him before I forget!”

“I’ll do that too. But when I wish him, he will chastise me for starting these new rituals!” 

“Men are impossible! They find fault with everything!”, she put a firm end to the discussion with that, and walked away with her phone in hand. 

Façade

There was fervor at home.  His brother-in-law was returning from the US after having completed his Masters.   His in-laws too were arriving from their bastion into the city, to receive him.  His wife had loved the idea of the party he had proposed to hold welcoming her brother, where even his engagement into another prominent business family would be announced.  

Theirs was a love marriage - convincing her parents was not easy though.  They were landed and rich, while he came from a traditional, educated, but poor family.  However, the equations had only grown better with time; they appreciated his acumen, and how he had helped in recommending new ideas for their business, even though he had not formally joined in. He continued to build his career in the world away from the family. His brother-in-law - younger by several years - adored him. 

All the buzz had gone quiet with that one phone call.  The boy had been killed in a shooting incident at his University, just a day before he was to return to his motherland.  Squeals of laughter and mirth had turned into screams of pain and wails of sadness. Soon, the entire house became quiet as a grave, as relatives left, and grief hung like a cloud in the air. 

Days went by, and all the due rituals were complete.  He was sitting out in the lawns and contemplating over his drink.  His mobile rang.  It was manager of the hotel where the party was supposed to have taken place.  "Sir, I know you couldn't hold the party due to the loss in the family.  If you so desire, we will nominally deduct the reservation charges, and return the rest of the money to you.  Let us know soon". He said he would get back to them in a day or two. 

*********

"Wow, never did you host such a great do.  Love the spread, and the booze. Sheer class!"  His close friends admired the arrangements, and he beamed. 

"What is the occasion, M? Why this sudden party?" 
"I am just sharing my happiness..." he trailed off.
"And, that is?"
“You’ll know”. He winked and smiled. 

They were his best friends. But, he just chose to be careful.  Masks were important in the world.  After all, at home he was still the grieving brother-in-law. 

Outcomes!

 It was that time of the year when the performance awards were announced by the firm. She was waiting expectantly too. She knew she had done well, had better numbers than most, and should make it. 

The last time round, she had missed out on winning even though her performance was strong. The Management had called her and said, “We are extremely sorry; we somehow weren’t given these figures of yours, and we couldn’t consider you because of that. Please continue with your performance, and we are sure you’ll be the topper”. The awards came with bonuses and other benefits, and she was flummoxed as to how her numbers didn’t reach the Management. Glitches in systems! Technical or human, she wasn’t certain.  She was compensated by a minor promotion and some cash benefits, but they weren’t the same as recognition. 

This time though she had ensured her numbers had reached the Top Brass for consideration, and she didn’t want to miss out on what she felt was hers, deservedly. These awards weren’t sent as mails or messages, but announced at a glitzy dinner each year.  As the evening warmed up on a rainy day, the Boss was on stage to do the honours. 

She felt rage flowing through her as this time  too she hadn’t made it to the list. Someone from her own team - her underling - was chosen over her.  As though to drive home the message, she was asked to deliver the honour! She had to endure a further painful hour before she could head home and vent her frustration. 

The next day, the Boss had requested her to join in for tea. She thought to herself, “Is it to tell again they messed up, or is it to let me know that they are fixing it this time?” She practised mindfulness for an extra five minutes to soother her nerves, and to tell herself that she wouldn’t overreact during her meeting with the Boss. Her resignation letter was feeling all the pressure of her hands. 

As she entered his cabin, she found that there were two others - her immediate superior, and another person she didn’t recognise, a regal looking woman. She was introduced to her as the CEO of the firm that was planning to acquire the firm she was working at. “How in the hell do I matter in this?”, was her question in mind. She smiled instead. No drama in front of an as-yet-outsider. 

The Boss started, “As our merger happens soon, we needed someone who would be heading the change management team. We would like to offer you the new role”. Was this a joke, she seethed as she heard the words. No explanation or apology for leaving her out of awards! It took a while for her to gather her wits and ready a response. Just as she thought she would blurt out, the Boss said, “And a seat on the Board of Directors. With stock options. Your performance was not worth a mere recognition with the rest”. 

For once she felt good about having kept quiet.