Alive But Not Living

The rain came quietly at first, as if hesitant to disturb the city’s rhythm. A few drops tapped against Sakshi’s windowpane, soft and irregular, like a child knocking timidly on a stranger’s door. But soon, the drizzle thickened into a steady shower, cascading down the glass in crooked streams. The streetlights outside fractured into blurred halos through the water, their glow distorted, almost dreamlike. From her seat by the window, Sakshi watched the downpour with an expression that was neither joy nor sadness—it was emptiness. A hollow gaze, as though she were looking at something and nothing at the same time. Her room was dimly lit, a single bulb flickering above her desk. The city outside was alive with movement—cars rushing past, horns slicing through the rain, hurried footsteps splashing across puddles—but she felt none of that energy. For her, the rain didn’t bring freshness or nostalgia the way it did for others. It only deepened the stillness that suffocated her. She rested her forehead against the cool glass and let her breath fog the surface. Her finger traced meaningless shapes in the condensation, dissolving as quickly as they appeared. Life, she thought, was not much different—moments forming and vanishing, leaving behind nothing permanent. Her eyes reflected the storm outside, but inside her there was no storm—just silence. “This is existence,” she whispered in her mind. “Not life. Just… existence. Breathing, moving, eating—yet none of it touches me.” For a long time, she stayed there, motionless, listening to the sound of water beating against the window. The rhythm should have been soothing, but to Sakshi, it was a reminder. A reminder that the world outside continued relentlessly, while she remained stuck—like a clock that had stopped ticking, though everyone else’s time carried on. Then came her mother’s voice, faint but urgent, breaking through the silence. “Sakshi, beta, come out. Dinner is ready.” The words floated into her room like fragile paper boats on a turbulent stream. Sakshi startled slightly, as if caught in the act of hiding. She sat upright, forcing her features into a semblance of composure, though no one had seen her raw state of drifting. Her lips parted reluctantly. “Yes, Maa. I’m coming,” she replied, her voice soft, almost unconvincing. She rose from the chair slowly, as though the weight of her body was too much for her bones to carry. The floor felt cold beneath her feet, even through her worn socks. She glanced once more at the blurred world outside, then turned away, abandoning it to its restless chaos. The house greeted her with the scent of food—spiced dal simmering, rotis stacked, steam curling from a pot of rice. A homely aroma, yet it didn’t stir hunger in her. She walked through the narrow corridor, walls closing in with their peeling paint and faded family photographs. The dining table stood in the center, plain but functional, its surface scarred with years of use. Her mother stood by it, ladling curry into a bowl, her movements quick and efficient. There was a fatigue in her eyes, though she covered it with a practiced smile the moment she looked at Sakshi. Just as Sakshi moved closer, the shrill ring of the doorbell cut through the air. Her mother glanced at her, then back at the pot. “Beta, can you open it? It must be your papa.” Sakshi froze for a moment. Her hand trembled slightly at her side, though she forced her face into neutrality. She knew what awaited behind that door. Dragging her feet forward, she reached for the handle. Her chest tightened as she pulled the door open. And there he was. Her father stood swaying at the threshold, drenched not by rain but by the stench of alcohol. His shirt was half untucked, his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled. He gripped the doorframe for balance, his expression a mixture of irritation and drunken haze. “Why the hell did you take so long to open the door?” he barked, voice sharp and slurred all at once. Sakshi lowered her gaze. She didn’t answer. She never did. Instead, she stepped aside, allowing him to stagger in. The air inside the house changed instantly—what had been heavy with silence now became heavier with tension. Her mother’s shoulders stiffened, but she said nothing, focusing instead on setting plates on the table. Sakshi remained by the door for a few seconds longer, her fists clenched. She watched her father slump into a chair, muttering under his breath, his presence swallowing the fragile peace of the home. Her thoughts screamed, louder than any words she could ever say aloud: “This is not a home. This is a prison. And I… I’m just the prisoner who cannot escape. I am alive, but I am not living.” --- The night stretched on, each moment thick with unspoken words. Sakshi ate quietly, though every bite felt tasteless. Her mother tried to keep conversation alive, asking about her day, about work, about trivial things, but Sakshi responded only in nods and monosyllables. Her father grumbled now and then, complaining about his job, about the world, about everything except himself. Later, when the dishes were cleared and her father had collapsed onto the sofa, snoring with the television still flickering, Sakshi retreated back to her room. The rain hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had grown fiercer, hammering against the window like a desperate plea. She sat down again, pulled her knees to her chest, and let her eyes wander back to the storm outside. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—tired eyes, pale skin, lips pressed thin. She barely recognized herself anymore. Memories came unbidden. Once upon a time, rain had been her favorite. She used to dance in it as a child, arms outstretched, laughter echoing through the streets. Back then, her father’s arms were strong and steady, lifting her high above puddles. Back then, her mother’s laughter was not forced but genuine. Back then, the world felt whole. What had changed? When had the rain turned from a friend into a reminder of everything lost? A single tear slipped down her cheek, though she brushed it away quickly. She hated tears. They solved nothing. The night deepened. The city outside continued its endless rush, but Sakshi remained by the window, trapped between past and present, between existence and life. And in that silence, in that storm, she whispered again to herself— “I am alive. But I am not living.” ---