She tied a simple rakhi on my wrist,

and in her eyes I saw a lifetime of love, loss, and silence.

This story began with a dream I had one weekend morning in Wellington last week.

A young woman appeared in that dream — calm on her face, and something special in her eyes.

Even after waking up, I could not forget her.

She once told me: “Don’t call me by my real name… you can call me Kumudini.”

Kumudini came from a small village in West Bengal.

She would proudly say: “My village is Tagore’s land. Even the first drop of rain feels like poetry there.”

When I thought about her, I remembered an old chapter from my life.

My hometown is near the hills of Munnar in Kerala.

One day, before the millennium, I told my father:

“I am going to Mumbai.”

I reached Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus station with only a friend’s address.

The station was huge, full of people.

The Hindi I learned in school felt so different from the Hindi and Marathi spoken there.

Later I found work as a lightman for ad films.

Half the month I worked across the city, and the other half I just walked around, exploring Mumbai.

One day, with a Tamil friend named Senthil, I visited Dharavi.

Families lived in tiny rooms, but their hearts were big.

Evenings were full of songs, dances, and shared meals.

Life was hard, but they knew how to stay happy together.

The Rehabilitation Centre

During my free time, I started volunteering at a rehabilitation centre in an old building.

Ashok and Meena, who worked there, welcomed me warmly.

Most people there were sad and quiet.

But Kumudini was different.

She had a bright smile and a deep love for music.

In the mornings, she played ragas in Bilawal on her radio.

In the evenings, ragas in Yaman, with songs in Bengali and Hindi.

Her music gave peace in the middle of the noisy city.

She wanted to learn Malayalam.

One day she tried to say “aankutty” (boy) but said “aanakkutty” (baby elephant) instead.

We both laughed, and I told her: “My Hindi sounds just like that!”

Her Story

Kumudini once fell in love with a young man in her village.

Her family strongly opposed it, so she ran away with him to Mumbai.

That decision cut her ties with home forever.

Life became difficult.

Her husband became addicted to alcohol and later died.

Her own health also started to fail.

She was admitted to hospital and later brought to the centre.

One day she told me:

“You can write. If I die, you must write about me.”

Raksha Bandhan

There was a small Raksha Bandhan celebration in the centre.

People who had lost their families tried to make new bonds that day.

Kumudini came to me with a simple rakhi thread in her hand.

“Can I tie this?” she asked softly.

I held out my hand.

She tied it and held my hand for a little while, not letting go.

When she finally released it, her eyes were full of tears.

In those eyes I saw:

a village she could never return to,

and the pain of being completely alone.

Sometimes, don’t we also feel lonely even when family is around us?

That same loneliness was in her eyes.

The Farewell

Work kept me busy, and I could not visit the centre for a few days.

When I finally returned, Ashok met me at the door.

His usual warm smile was gone.

“Kumudini is no longer here,” he said quietly.

“Her place is empty now.”

Meena came with tears in her eyes but said nothing.

Her silence said it all.

Ashok added:

“When her music and her smile disappeared, this place felt truly empty.”

The End

Some journeys end without goodbye.

In the restless city of Mumbai,

a village girl spent her last days with a smile.

Kumudini…

did you leave with the dream?

Or are you still here, smiling quietly,

in the space between sleep and waking?