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🎧 Tere Hawale (Female Version)

🎵Na hoke bhi kareeb tu, hamesha paas tha

Ke sau janam bhi dekhti main tera raasta

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Home - Early Morning

"It's just a name," I told myself. "That's all it is."

And yet, it followed me into the morning like an echo I couldn't silence.

Since last night, I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. My mind was flooded with bizarre thoughts. What if he is...

Stop it, Aashi. He's just a patient's son. That's all.

Don't make this more complicated than it already is.

I was staring at myself in the mirror while tying my hair, my thoughts spiraling out of control.

I didn't recognize the reflection in front of me.

Is this me? What am I doing? Why is this happening to me?

It took just one name to shatter my structure-my plan.

Had I really built a life so fragile that one name could shake it all?

---

"Mumma."

Anaya walked into the room, screaming loudly.

"Hey, Anaya, calm down," I said, crouching to her level. "What happened? What did you see?"

"Mumma, is it hard to hit sixes like the man on TV?" She swung her arms dramatically, trying to mimic him.

"What man?" I asked, my breath catching in my throat.

"The one with the bat... and the smile like mine."

I stood up slowly, running my fingers through her hair.

"Yesterday... when you and Manu were watching TV," she added casually.

"Let's not watch TV too early, sweetheart," I whispered, kissing her forehead.

But the echo lingers.

Smile like mine.

Don't look.

Don't remember.

Don't fall apart.

---

Hospital

As I entered the hospital premises, I scanned my ID card-my hand trembling just slightly.

Walking down the corridor, my eyes unfocused and my shoulders held a bit too stiff, I drifted through the motions until I reached my cabin. The routine was my armor, but today, it felt like paper.

Inside, I slipped into my usual routine: conducting post-op rounds and delivering a lecture to the residents. But my thoughts refused to stay tethered. They kept drifting back to yesterday-Mrs. Gill, the name, the dimple, the echo of a face I hadn't allowed myself to remember in years.

My intern arrived with the radiological reports I had requested.

I took them and reviewed the MRI.

And there it was-clear, clinical, inarguable.

She needed surgery. Without it, her condition would progress rapidly. No question. No delay.

You know what to do, Aashi. Be composed. Be rational.

Play your role. Keep it separate. Keep it safe.

But what happens when even rationality feels brittle?

I've operated on enough brains to know when something feels off. And this-this was beyond medicine. Every line I traced on that scan, every region I studied, sent an unspoken signal twisting inside me. A quiet signal. A shift. A sense that something was about to change.

---

I stood frozen in the corner of my cabin-a place I usually found control in. Now, it felt too quiet. Too honest.

The sinking feeling I had been avoiding pressed in.

Before I could stop myself, I unlocked my phone. My hand hovered above the screen. I knew this was dangerous territory. Still... I needed to know, even if the answer could undo me.

I typed-

"Shubman Gill."

I didn't need the full name. The search bar filled it in as if the universe was in on the joke.

The screen populated instantly-hundreds of images, news headlines, video thumbnails, all crowned by that familiar face I hadn't allowed myself to remember.

Jawline sharp. Eyes focused. That same stubborn dimple in the left cheek that refused to be forgotten.

I clicked on a clip-sound off. It was a recent match, maybe even from the week before. The camera panned to him after a six.

There it was again.

That look. That posture. That quiet confidence, almost detached. And when he smiled for the crowd, just briefly, the breath in my lungs stuttered.

I stared a moment too long.

Then-

Click.

The tab vanished. I cleared my history. Logged out.

I went to my desk, my hands trembling slightly as they reached for the stethoscope.

"No," I whispered to the empty silence of my cabin.

"Not the same. Can't be."

But denial, once cracked, doesn't seal cleanly again.

---

Getting hold of myself, I walked over to the nurses' station. I paged the interns and junior staff assigned to this case and briefed them about the revised admission and pre-surgical processes.

It was just a routine pre-surgical admission.

Except it wasn't.

Mrs. Gill's admission had been moved up to tomorrow. The final pre-anesthesia evaluation was pending, and the neurosurgical ward needed confirmation to prepare her room.

Since this was a high-profile case-one that could easily attract media attention-all responsibility fell directly on me. I needed my most trusted team around me: professionals who wouldn't whisper, speculate, or leak anything.

The family had explicitly requested privacy, and I intended to honor that.

I was still sorting through the logistics when one of my juniors approached me, looking slightly hesitant.

"Doctor, Mrs. Gill says she'd prefer to postpone the surgery by a couple of weeks. She wants to wait until her son returns."

I looked up. "Did you inform her that delaying it could increase post-operative risks?"

"Yes, ma'am. I explained it clearly, but she says she understands and still wants to wait. She insists that her son should be here."

I nodded slowly, dismissing her. "Okay. I'll handle it."

Later, back in my office, I stared at Mrs. Gill's digital file longer than necessary.

My fingers hovered over the emergency contact listed on the screen: Shubman Gill.

The name sent a tremor through my composure.

I hesitated for a second or two.

Then I tapped on Message.

Calling him would feel too personal. Too direct. Too... close. So, I chose the safer option.

I typed slowly and carefully:

"Good afternoon. This is Dr. Aashi Verma from Lifecare Hospital, Neuro Department. I am informing you that Mrs. Kavita Gill is scheduled for admission tomorrow. Surgery is planned for two days post-admission, as previously discussed. However, she has requested that the surgery be postponed until your return from tour. Please reconsider and inform us of your final decision."

I read it three times before hitting send. No traces of familiarity, no emotion-just clinical clarity.

And yet, as I watched the message deliver, my hands felt colder than before.

---

"Cut! Cut-Shubman-eyes here, not on your phone!"

The set lights blared like judgment. The assistant director waved dramatically from behind the camera, half-joking, half-exasperated. The shoot was for a new energy drink campaign-Fuel Your Fire-but my spark felt faint, flickering.

I slid the phone back into my pocket with a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Let's go again."

The camera rolled. I held the bat, swung, and smiled on cue. The backdrop screamed motion, the crew clapped, and the director grinned.

It was all mechanical.

My body moved, but my head was elsewhere. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere more confusing.

Between takes, as I toweled off the sweat from my temple, I instinctively pulled out my phone again. Two unread notifications blinked back at me-one from Rhea and the other from an unknown number.

I opened Rhea's message first.

Rhea: "Surgery on track. Dr. Aashi Verma called. She seems really thorough. But mom is stalling. Talk to her."

Stalling?

I sighed. She shouldn't delay any further. I had to talk to her.

Then I opened the second message.

Dr. Aashi Verma:

"Good afternoon. This is Dr. Aashi Verma from Lifecare Hospital, Neuro Department. Just informing you that Mrs. Kavita Gill is scheduled for admission tomorrow. Surgery is planned two days post-admission, as previously discussed. However, she has requested that the surgery be postponed until your return from tour. Kindly reconsider and inform us of your final decision."

I read it once.

Then again.

And again.

A beat of silence passed within me-internal, but deafening.

Aashi.

It couldn't be.

I tapped out of the message, opened Chrome, and searched for Lifecare Hospital consultants. Scrolling past generic bios and headshots, I froze at the name.

Dr. Aashi Verma

MS (Neurosurgery), DNB

Her photo looked polished and professional-clean bun, steady eyes, confident smile. A face sharper than the one etched in my memory, more structured. Yet still... unmistakably her.

I stared, not blinking. The screen dimmed. I tapped it back to life.

Could it really be her?

I hadn't said her name out loud in years. I hadn't allowed myself to.

But it had never left me.

Dev leaned over my shoulder, sipping from a sponsor can.

"Bro, who's that? You've been staring for ten minutes."

I didn't look away. "Neurosurgeon. My mom's doctor."

Dev raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And I follow a strict vegan diet."

I smirked faintly but didn't answer. I just locked the screen and tucked the phone back into my pocket.

But the thoughts kept spinning.

Her voice.

Her eyes.

That night.

The one night that hadn't faded like the rest.

The pendant. I still had it. Tucked in a small velvet pouch in my hotel room drawer. Untouched, yet never discarded.

I had no name for that memory until now. Only fragments: laughter, and the way she had looked at me like she could see past everything-the cricket, the noise, the fame.

Now that name had returned, bringing with it a thousand questions I wasn't sure I was ready to ask.

Maybe now I understood why I kept it.

Later, once the shoot finally wrapped and the studio lights dimmed, I stepped aside and dialed my mother.

She picked up quickly. "Haan, beta?"

"Ma... I got a message from the hospital. They're admitting you tomorrow?"

A pause.

"I told them to wait until you return from your tour," she replied simply.

"Ma, we've already-"

"I'm not doing the surgery alone," she interrupted. "When you come back, we'll fix the date. Until then, tell that doctor thank you, but I'm in no rush."

I ran a hand through my hair, glancing at the floor.

I didn't argue. Not yet.

Part of me understood. She wanted me there. She always had.

But a quieter part of me wondered-had fate just handed me something I hadn't dared to look for?

After the call, I found myself unlocking my phone again and reopening the message.

Dr. Aashi Verma.

I read it for the fourth time, as if the words might change.

Aashi Verma. It was a common enough name, right?

But then why did it hit me like that?

It shouldn't have meant more than it did.

But somehow... it did.

Could she be the one?

Is it right for me to build my hope after so many years?

Now I had a reason to see her again.

Even if I wasn't sure what I'd say when I did.

---

At Home - Aashi's POV

The dining room was filled with a warm ambience - the soft clinking of cutlery, the enticing smell of cumin and garlic wafting from the dishes Ma had prepared, and the occasional chatter that broke the silence between bites.

Aashi served the last bowl of dal and called out, "Anaya, dinner!"

Tiny feet came sprinting in, echoing down the hallway. Anaya entered, her hair messy from play, clutching a crumpled A4 sheet in her hand like a trophy.

"Mumma! Look! My homework!" she beamed, holding it up.

Aashi knelt beside her. "Let me see."

The drawing featured three stick figures - one tall with a ponytail, one smaller with curls and pink cheeks, and another with spiky hair and a bat. All of them wore broad, lopsided smiles. For a four-year-old, it was remarkably expressive.

"That's me," Anaya explained, pointing to the middle figure. "And that's you, Mumma. And that's..." She paused for a moment. "He plays cricket. I think he's like... someone I saw on TV."

The adults exchanged amused glances.

"She's getting good at this," Aashi's father said warmly, adjusting his glasses to admire the drawing. "Very detailed."

"She even gave herself pink cheeks," Ma chuckled.

They all returned to their dinner, laughter settling into a comfortable rhythm. Plates were passed, and rice was served.

Then came a small, clear voice - unassuming yet impactful.

"Mumma..." Anaya said suddenly, her spoon paused mid-air. "Do I have a father?"

---

Let's talk about it...

How did this chapter make you feel?

Did any line stay with you long after reading?

Aashi's silence or Anaya's question - whose moment hit you harder?

With all my love🤍,

the_stellarflower