A Novel by Goutham Kool Monk
The sky grumbled like a wounded heart.
Rahul stood at the edge of a cliff, the wind clawing at his kurta, a small golden trophy clutched in his hand. It wasn’t heavy, but tonight it carried a weight he could barely hold. Rain mixed with the tears he didn’t bother to wipe. The valley below blurred into mist, and above him, the clouds churned.
"This is for you," he whispered. "This life... is for you."
His foot inched forward.
And then—a warmth. Not of breath or flesh, but presence. A trace of rose and chalk. Arms wrapped around him, not to pull him back, but to remind him he was never truly alone. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, she was gone.
But the storm had passed.
---
It began with silence.
Rahul Arora had always lived in the background—the quiet boy in the hoodie with a notebook full of thoughts he never dared to speak. He wrote because it was the only way he could breathe. The canteen roared with laughter, but he sat alone. Until one day, she arrived.
There was no announcement, no spotlight. Just a girl in white mime paint, barefoot on an open stage. No music. No words. And yet she told a story that pierced the room.
A woman cooking, laughing, waiting.
A silence.
No one came.
She placed her palms on an invisible wall. Sank beneath its weight. Then pulled herself forward, step by step, as if walking through fire.
And at the end, she stood tall.
A fist raised. Unshaken.
The crowd erupted. But Rahul didn’t move. Something inside him had shifted. For the first time, someone had spoken directly to his soul—without a single word.
Her name was Mayaa.
---
She found him before he found courage.
A flyer. Folded. Smudged. Slipped silently into his hand.
"Mime & Movement Workshop: No experience needed. You already know how to feel. Now come learn how to show it."
No words. Just a look. A tilt of her head. And a smile that carried belief, not expectation.
So he went.
The rehearsal room wasn’t a studio. Just an old classroom with shutters cracked and incense weaving through chalk dust. Inside, students moved like whispers—some chasing butterflies, others drowning in slow motion. At the center stood Mayaa. Eyes closed. Palms open. She didn’t look at him.
But she knew.
She always knew.
When their eyes finally met, she didn’t greet him. Just lifted her hand and made a small gesture. A beginning.
And Rahul, clumsy, unsure, moved.
Not perfectly. But honestly.
---
Tuesdays and Thursdays became sacred.
He learned to speak with his hands. With breath. With pause. He mimed weight. Joy. Grief. And one afternoon, they paired up.
She was the wind. He, the tree.
She danced in rain. He, cautious under an umbrella.
Then she stole it. And he—for the first time—let himself be seen.
They stood under the invisible canopy, not touching, but close. When the mime ended, they didn’t move.
Not right away.
---
Outside the stage, she was quieter still.
No makeup. Just a girl in a faded kurta, sipping from a steel tumbler. He approached. Didn’t speak. Just mimed a square—a chair. She slid her tray. Permission.
Later, she showed him her sketchbook.
Not of objects. But moments.
A woman at a broken window.
A boy surrounded by cracked mirrors.
She handed him the pencil. His hands shook, but he drew.
A boy and a girl. Under an umbrella. Not touching. But leaning in.
She smiled. Closed the book like it now held something sacred. And touched his wrist.
"I see you too."
---
One winter evening, she asked him to bring silence.
They sat on the amphitheater steps, no stage, no paint. Just sky. She began to mime. Not a performance. A confession.
She mimed breath. Then the struggle for it.
She mimed a flower. Wilting.
Then she looked at him. No smile.
He understood. No diagnosis. No doctor needed.
I’m unwell.
He placed his palm over hers. Not to save. Just to stay.
She tapped his notebook. Turned the key with her fingers.
"If my voice fades... you'll still have the story."
---
The showcase arrived.
He wore the paint for the first time.
Mayaa didn’t perform.
"My voice... your echo," she had said.
He performed The Kite and the String. A boy chasing dreams. A string holding him back. And then—letting go.
Applause followed.
She didn’t clap. Just touched her cheek. Their signal.
He had arrived.
---
But then she didn’t show up.
Days passed. He waited. Rehearsed alone. Until Sunita Aunty called.
"She’s at the hospital. New treatment. She didn’t want you to worry."
He did.
That night he wrote: She who spoke without words now says nothing with her absence.
She returned. Slower. Wrapped tighter. But still smiling.
He offered his palm.
"Still partners?"
She nodded.
---
He crafted a new piece. Named it Mayaa.
A story of a girl who wore paint to hide pain, danced to make others forget, and spoke through silence.
She handed him a note: "Make them feel what I never said."
He did.
---
The night of the State Meet, she couldn’t come. Too weak. But she sent a sketch.
Rahul on stage. A shadow drawn faintly beside him.
You’ll never be alone.
And he wasn’t.
He performed. Hands painting grief. Feet tracing strength. The final pose—palms together, face tilted skyward.
Applause. Deep. Lasting.
He cried.
Not from nerves.
But because she wasn’t there.
Or maybe... she was.
---
He visited her the next morning.
She was sleeping.
He placed the medal by the window.
She woke. Saw it. Saw him.
And framed the moment with her fingers. A camera. A memory.
Then she touched her chest.
And his.
And closed her eyes.
He always believed—she left right then.
Because Mayaa knew when a story ended.
And who was meant to carry it.
---
Weeks later, in a quiet classroom, chalk dust danced in sunlight. Children mimed butterflies. Balloons. Dreams.
Rahul guided them. No makeup. Just truth.
At the front, her photo. A garland. A diya.
When the class ended, he stayed. Swept the floor.
Then said softly,
"You’re late."
No reply.
But he felt her.
She stood behind him. Dressed in white. Silent.
They raised their palms.
And began.
A final mime. One no audience would ever see.
It spoke of friendship.
Of grief.
Of love not as holding on, but as becoming.
They moved. Twirled. Aligned. She bowed. He caught her.
The music—only he could hear—rose.
She faded into light.
— Voiceover: Rahul’s thoughts “She didn’t leave. She stayed — in my breath, in my hands, in every story I tell. When she danced in me… …I became.” The screen faded to white. End titles rolled. But her silence echoed forever.
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