Simran

******

I woke up with the same nightmare.

Except this time, there was someone else in that nightmare—someone who should not have been there, who had no purpose to be there; someone whom I loved the most, yet I ended up killing.

Everything once again transported me back to the dreadful day three years ago, the day I wished to erase from my life and memory. But it was now engraved deep into my existence, so much so that if I were to be known, it would be by that day when I took a life.

******

FLASHBACK [Three Years Ago]

******

I woke up with the same nightmare.

Drenched in sweat and panting for breath, I looked around my surroundings. I realized I was safe, secure, and at the place where no evil could dare touch me—my home.

But until when?

Until when will I be safe, and the demons from my nightmare, which seemed nothing less than reality, won't crawl out and trap me in the cavern of darkness?

Until when would I pray to be woken up to get back to my safety?

What I had been experiencing was not normal, and I had to do something to stop the darkness from spreading its tentacles to ensnare me.

It first started when I went to London for my sister Samaira's wedding reception. There, I received the biggest shock of my life: the elder sister I grew up with, and had idolized and played with, was not my real sister. Rather, she was the daughter of a deceased friend of my father. She was reunited with her birth family after she got married and settled in London, but that truth did not alter my love for her, did not change our dynamics—only strengthened them. However, that piece of information triggered something in me that caused my nightmares to begin.

Initially, I would have it once in a while, like two to three times a month, so I ignored it. But when I went back to London again to attend Samaira Di's twin brother's wedding reception, where a goon attack took place and we were rescued later, my nightmares escalated. Since then, I have been having them almost every day. I had been having the same nightmare, yet I could not get used to it. I was exhausted now—too tired and scared. Every sudden movement would give me jump scares. Every now and then, I would question myself whether I was in my nightmare or if it had yet to start. I was terrified I would soon lose the ability to differentiate between my reality and nightmares.

The terrible part was not my suffering, but being unable to make my own family understand what I was going through. It's not like I didn't tell anyone. I did. I told my mother about the dark nightmares haunting me, giving me sleepless nights, but she did not even acknowledge my pain. She treated me like I was being oversensitive about something trivial and that it was my fault. According to her, my job hunting after my graduation was the reason for the stress, which led to me having those "silly dreams."

Yeah, that's what my mother called my nightmares: silly dreams.

Strange, isn't it?

I remembered how much importance was given to Samaira Di's trauma, how the entire family took every step cautiously so that her mental peace would not be hampered. But why were they treating me differently? Why was no one giving much importance to my feelings?

For more than a month, I tried to make my mother understand, but she did not pay heed to it. For weeks, I tried to gain my father's attention, who was always busy with some work, but I failed. For days, I tried to talk to my cousins Sonia and Ishaan Bhaiya, but they were too busy with their lives. And there was no way I could tell Samaira Di. I did not want her to relive the memories of her trauma because of me, because I had seen what her painful past did to her, and in no way would I let anything hurt her. I would rather take the pain instead.

But I was not a quitter either, so I was not going to let the pain consume me and haul me into the nightmares I escape every day. I was going to have myself fixed, whatever it took.

Suddenly, my alarm went off, startling me. I almost shrieked in fear. I grabbed the phone from the nightstand and turned off the alarm instantly, only to see it was seven in the morning already. Once again, I had only an hour of sleep the previous night. In my ruminations, I did not notice the sunlight peeking from behind the pastel-colored curtains I had hung because anything dark around me was giving me the heebie-jeebies [aw]. I needed something to differentiate between real and unreal. So, I transformed everything around me, from my clothes to every fabric in my room. Nothing I wore was dark anymore.

As the curtains blew with a cold breeze and the cool air touched my skin, I felt alive. It felt like a soft caress. I wouldn't mind if the intensity of the breeze increased, turning it into a wind. That, I knew, would make me feel more alive than I felt with the touch of the silky breeze.

I could stay there for as long as I could, watching the sun, letting the breeze soothe me, consoling me every second that everything was going to be fine, but I had a meeting with a therapist in three hours. I had not told anyone about it, but it's the only way and my first step to heal myself. It's not like I didn't try telling my mother I needed to see a therapist, but she freaked out as if I had gone crazy. I had no clue why things were different for me when nobody ever let Samaira Di miss any of her sessions.

But anyway, I was done thinking about the partiality and decided to focus on myself, making myself a priority.

'You can do this, Simran Kashyap.'

I chanted that self-made mantra a few times in my head and hopped off the bed to get ready for the new day, in hopes I was going to take a step towards my betterment, unaware of the catastrophe waiting around for me.

By the time I was ready and headed to have breakfast, my entire family was already there. My parents, Arvind and Rina Kashyap; Dad's younger brother, my Uncle Rishabh Kashyap, and his wife, Sheetal Kashyap; my studious little cousin Sonia, who had her iPad on the table because without reading the daily news with her food, she could never digest it; and then there was my elder cousin, the CEO of Kashyap Industries, Ishaan Kashyap, who was cooing his little son Ikshit, cradled in his arms, the apple of everybody's eye, and his wife, Adya Kashyap, who was busy admiring the two.

"So, what series were you binge-watching last night?" Sheetal Aunty queried me, smiling as soon as I pulled my chair to sit.

"Huh?" I was confused, unable to decipher her query.

"You're late for breakfast. For sure, you slept late and couldn't wake up on time. So, what series, or what handsome hunk, took your night's sleep? Is it Ian Somerhalder this time?"

Everybody laughed around while I gave a small smile. If only it was Ian Somerhalder haunting me. I would feel blessed instead, but the reality was far from feeling blessed and blissful.

"No one, aunty. It was the mosquitoes."

"And here I was hoping I would get some gossip."

"I have none. Sorry," I replied meekly, smiling. My smile was fake, and my body was on high alert, making sure everything around me was real—that I was not trapped in some other nightmare. I kept touching stuff on the table and pinching myself repeatedly to make sure I was alive and living my reality.

While I was at it, making myself conscious that I was alive and fine, with so many people around the table, no one noticed I was not doing fine. No one was paying attention. But then, how could they? In a short time, I had learned how to hide the truth and reality while struggling to not slip away from my own. When everyone chose not to pay attention to me, I realized it was better I did not bother anyone anymore.

Sometimes I feel no one truly knows me. No one from the family ever paid enough attention to me. It's true that I never let such things bother me before and that I never let myself feel lonely, but things had been shifting recently. I craved for people I cared about to know the real me, to get to know me. Everybody knows what Samaira Di loves, what Sonia does on a daily basis, what Ishaan Bhaiya and even Adya Bhabhi want, but not me. They always assumed wrong about me and never bothered.

They were always like:

Simran can do it alone.

Simran does not need anyone.

Simran can take care of herself.

While for others, things were different. It was like this for them:

Do you need something?

Don't go alone.

I know you can do it, but let us lend a hand to help you.

Just because I could do it does not mean I wanted to do it alone. Just because I could take care of myself, it never meant I did not need a helping hand too. If anyone, even in the slightest, tended to my needs, it was my sister, but now she was with her own family, her husband, who loved her unconditionally.

There was another fit of laughter that erupted from the table. I stared around and found everybody looking at me, which meant I had zoned out and someone might have asked me something.

"Umm...what?" I asked.

"Your uncle thinks you will become a professor, but your father believes you will join the business. They are ready to bet on it. What is it, then?" Sheetal Aunty asked me curiously. Everybody stared at me expectantly except my mother. She seemed to be in her own head ever since I arrived at the dining table.

With Aunty's question, it was obvious again that my family did not know me at all. They never noticed my passion, my love for what I do, the place of practice I go to everyday. What I did for years and learned for years, practiced for years, was not for show or because of peer pressure. It was because I was working to turn my dream into my career.

Choosing not to answer and stirring the poha on my plate, I turned the course of the conversation to my cousin.

"What about Sonia?"

"Entrepreneur." Everybody answered together. See, they knew what she wanted to become without her ever voicing it out.

"A boring job." Aunty said, rolling her eyes. Sonia simply scrunched her nose at her mother and then went back to looking at her iPad. Not sure what was so important for her there, but she could not seem to look away from it for long.

"Yeah, she will eat her employees' heads," Ishaan Bhaiya replied, receiving a disapproving groan from Sonia, and Adya Bhabhi reprimanded him for teasing her.

Everybody was aware of Sonia's dream when she had done a generalized graduation. She could become anything, but the entire family knew exactly what she would become. However, even when I never missed a practice session, they did not know what I wanted to become. The conversation easily swayed from me to everyone, and it never came back to me. Not that I minded now.

All those little things were piling up in my heart, though, making a bubble of hurt and betrayal so big that I felt my eyes tearing up. I blinked my tears away, left the food because I did not have any appetite. Once everybody left, I headed out to live. As I tried fishing out my car keys and phone from my bag, I only found my keys and not my phone. That's when I remembered I had left it at the breakfast table. I rushed to get it from there, but when I reached, it was nowhere to be found.

'Where did it go?' I mumbled to myself, looking around on the other furniture, wondering if I had left it somewhere else carelessly. Just when I was about to scurry to my room to check if someone left it there in case they found it, I saw Sonia coming out of her room.

"Nia..." I called, halting her steps.

"Did you see my phone? I remember leaving it at the breakfast table."

"Yeah, Aunty had it. She went to the library with Uncle." I nodded and walked to the library on the first floor. I grabbed the door handle and was about to push it when I heard Dad mentioning me.

"What about Simran, again?"

I stopped when I heard them talking about me. Earlier, I did not care, but things had changed for the worse now.

"What do you want me to do, Rina?" Dad sounded agitated.

"Just put some sense into her head. You are her father. Can't you simply do that?" If Dad sounded agitated, Mom's voice emitted anger. She was furious at me, as expected, because, according to her, I had gone crazy.

"What if she really is struggling?"

"She is not. Don't you know your daughter? It has become a fashion nowadays for everyone to see a therapist. I am sure she must be doing all of this under peer pressure." I was staggered when I heard my mother's words. It felt like she twisted a knife in my back. Her words cut deep through me, leaving behind wounds that would never heal.

My eyes got teary again, and I did not blink them away this time. Those salty drops burned every part of my skin they glided on, and I did not swipe them away. Instead, I let them hurt me. Yet, nothing could compare to the venom-laced words of my own mother.

"What if her nightmares are real, Rina? And you are telling me all of it now?"

"There is no nightmare. She is making it up. I know her. I'm not letting her do stupid things like..."

I had had enough, so I barged in, causing them to suspend their conversation and look in my direction. They were my parents, for God's sake, yet they were hurting me. My mother, who for some reason was holding some kind of animosity against me, and my father, who was so ignorant that he was clueless I had been struggling for months now.

Dad looked shocked and guilty, but Mom only looked flustered, of course, because of the interruption I caused. She didn't have an ounce of guilt on her face.

"Simmy..." Dad was trying to conjure up words to say something, but I knew there was nothing that could pacify me. No words, no gesture was going to reverse any of it. I knew he knew it too; that's why he couldn't say anything except for taking my name.

"I'm just here for my phone," I said, finding it on the table. As I reached for my phone, I heard my mother ordering me, "You're not going."

She stared directly at me, fuming like I had committed a grave crime. I understood what it was all about. She might have checked my phone's notification about my therapy session and then thought of using Dad against this whole idea of my self-healing. Otherwise, there was no way for her to tell Dad all about it when she had clearly warned me earlier not to trouble him with my 'nonsensical story.'

I decided not to give in like every other time. Hence, determinedly, I replied, "I am."

"Enough of your drama, Simran. Do you believe you are traumatized? Of what? A nightmare? You are not a kid and I did not raise you to be a coward." She yelled.

"And you don't seem like my mother at all." I shouted back. I was taken aback by myself, for I had never, ever yelled at my mother like that. What was worse was that she was thrown off guard too and, just for a brief moment, looked hurt, but then concealed her emotions, pulling her angry self back.

"Simmy..." Dad's stern voice reached me, and I turned to him.

"You should have come to me. I would have listened." I wanted that the most, but his responses were always like:

I am busy, Simmy.

Can we talk in the evening?

I'm sure there's nothing you can't do on your own.

"I tried, Dad, but you never had time for me..." My voice cracked at the end.

"Who will have time for your nonsense? You should be working on your life, your career, like your sister and cousins. Instead, you're wasting your time on what? Some fake stories of nightmares? Stop playing around. There's a whole big life ahead of you."

I was right when I said she didn't seem like the mother who raised me, but a woman I never knew.

"What life are you talking about, Mom? The one where I am having sleepless nights? The one where everything seems to scare me, where I am failing to realize what's real or what's fake?"

By then, everyone had gathered there. They all looked concerned.

"What's going on?" Rishabh Uncle asked Dad, who stood there in shock. Perhaps my words hurt him, but I could not keep it all in me now. I just could not hold it all for long.

"What's the point of planning my life ahead when I have no clue if I will even be alive for long?" My voice went meek as I stared at my mother, still hoping she would eventually understand me. She used to get me so well earlier, but she changed—and only for me.

She had the same livid expression, her arms crossed, and she kept her glare on me.

"Or maybe that's what you want, don't you? You want me dead because you never loved me. You don't care because, for you, I am just a worthless piece of shit."

"Simran, you know that's not true. Your mother loves you." Sheetal Aunty intervened this time.

It felt like something triggered my mother because what she said next was no less than a poison laced dagger twisting into my heart.

"You are being childish, Simran. Stop acting like a brat. Look at Ishaan. He is running the family business and handling his family so well. Learn from your sister-in-law, Adya, who is doing so well in her life and career. Sonia here is doing so much to set up her career. And your sister, Samaira, she is handling an entire organization on her own with not much experience, and she is doing so great too. If they had acted childish, they all would have been nagging like a baby, like you are doing."

She paused, took a step toward me, and seethed, "What have you done till now, tell me? You are just an attention seeker and need people to validate whatever you do."

I was rendered speechless then. I perceived that nothing I would say would ever make her understand my feelings. I'm not sure when exactly we drifted so far, but we were at the point of no return from that place now.

"Rina, stop." Dad's voice soared a little.

"I am tired of her tantrums, Arvind. If she won't stop her foolishness, I will marry her off to someone suitable. It's not like we are not receiving proposals already."

She was trying to do what they did to my sister. When her life was threatened by a dangerous man, my parents married her off to an influential man from London. No doubt, he turned out to be the man of her dreams and her life turned into a fairy tale, but that does not change the fact they legit forced her to marry when she was clearly against the idea of it. I, being her sister, could do nothing at all.
They were trying to do it to me, too. Now they were seeing me as a liability and wanted me to marry someone. But I would never let that happen to me.

I looked at my mother, feeling pain for the last time because I knew I was never going to let her witness the vulnerable me again as I said, "I hate you. I hate you so much. I wish you go so far away that I don't get to see your face ever again."

"I SAID STOP IT." Dad yelled. Dad doesn't yell often. He used to be angry, but yelling was never his thing. He was listening to me now, and I wish he had done that before.

******

I was catapulted back to the present from the harrowing day three years ago by the shrill alarm tone of my phone. I turned it off and checked the time, which spooked me. It was six in the morning, which was alarming because I had lost so many hours. The last I could recall was being at a masquerade ball. I was not supposed to wake up at my place with no memory of the missing hours. The lost hours weren't the crazy part; rather, it was that I was safe—that was the craziest part.

If I was at my place, safe and sound, with no one I knew around, it meant only one thing. That was not a good realization, but the worst of all.