Murthy

                           Title: Murthy

               A Life Tale by Vijaya Tagore

                    Part 1 - The Death Bed

Murthy lay in his bed, his frail, eighty-year-old body almost motionless under the thin, white sheet. He could no longer feel his legs, and his hands trembled like the dying embers of a once-blazing fire. Paralysis had taken away his mobility, confining him to the bed for what felt like an eternity. The room was dark, save for the faint moonlight that filtered through the gaps in the curtains. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall and his own labored breathing.

For years, Murthy had been a man feared by his family—a stern patriarch from Andhra Pradesh, whose word was law. His arrogance was as imposing as his tall frame once had been. His voice, even now, could still echo with the remnants of its old authority, though it was rarely heard anymore. Murthy’s wife, Radha, had borne the brunt of his anger and frustration for years. His daughter, Priya, had grown up knowing more of his rage than his affection. And now, here he was, a shell of the man he used to be, dependent on others even to perform the most basic of functions.

The very thought of needing assistance for his toilet was humiliating. For someone who had prided himself on his independence and control, this was the ultimate indignity. Night after night, he lay awake, his mind drifting in and out of thoughts—some sharp with regret, others dull with resignation. But tonight was different. As he lay there, his body aching and his mind restless, a thought crept into his consciousness: Death is heaven. Living like this is hell.

The realization struck him like a blow. He could feel his chest tighten, not from the physical pain that had become his constant companion, but from a deeper, more profound agony—an ache that came from his very soul. In that moment, Murthy’s life began to unravel before him, scene by painful scene, like a tragic play performed on the stage of his mind. He saw himself as a younger man, full of vigor and ambition but also full of pride and cruelty. He remembered the way he had treated Radha, the woman who had stood by him through every storm, who had loved him unconditionally despite his harsh words and colder actions. How many times had he raised his voice at her? How many times had he dismissed her needs as trivial or insignificant?

Then came the memories of his daughter, Priya. He had never been the father she deserved. He had been strict, unyielding, always pushing her to achieve more, to be more, never showing her the love and affection she craved. He had mistaken fear for respect and obedience for love. Now, in the dimness of his room, he could see how wrong he had been. Priya had distanced herself from him, moved away to the city years ago. She rarely visited, and when she did, the encounters were brief, filled with awkward silences and forced smiles. He knew she was busy with her life, her career, but he also knew—now more than ever—that she had left to escape him.

And what of his parents? His throat tightened as he recalled their last days. He had left them in a small, rundown house in their village, neglected and alone. They had reached out to him, asked for his help, but he had been too busy, too important, to care for the people who had given him everything. He had ignored their pleas, thinking only of himself. When they passed away, he hadn’t even attended their funerals. He had convinced himself that his business dealings were more urgent. But the truth, he realized now, was that he had been too proud to admit he was wrong.

Tears welled up in his eyes, a rare occurrence for a man like Murthy. He blinked them away, but they kept coming, spilling down his cheeks, one after another, soaking into his pillow. He thought of his wealth, his grand house that now felt more like a prison. What use was all of it now? He had everything, yet he had nothing. He was surrounded by people—servants, nurses—but he had never felt more alone. They were here only because they were paid to be. None of them cared for him. Why would they? He had never shown any kindness, never treated them with respect. They, like his family, probably wished for his death so they could finally be free of him and perhaps share in whatever inheritance was left behind.

But there was one person, one soul in this world he still wanted to see. Priya. His daughter. The thought of her, with her bright eyes and the innocence that had once shone in them, tore at his heart. He wanted to see her one last time, to tell her how sorry he was, to beg for her forgiveness. He knew he did not deserve it, but he wanted to ask for it anyway. He wanted to say, "I’m sorry for being the worst father. I’m sorry for being the best at being bad." He wanted to hold her hand, to feel her touch, to hear her voice soothing him, just once more before he closed his eyes forever.

Murthy tried to call out, but his voice was barely a whisper. "Priya… Priya…" He knew she was not nearby. She was in the city, far away, living her life, a life he had no part in anymore. He could not ask for help to reach her; the people around him were indifferent. They wouldn’t understand his need, his desperation. To them, he was just an old, bitter man counting his last days.

As the night stretched on, his tears continued to flow, silently, like a stream that had long been dammed up finally finding release. Each tear was a drop of remorse, a bead of regret, falling on his pillow, soaking it through. His sobs were soft, muffled by the weight of his shame and the fear that if he cried too loudly, someone might hear him and see him in his weakest state—a broken man, lost in his own guilt.

In the darkness, Murthy realized that he might not see the dawn. He might not have another day to live with his regrets, but he knew he could not undo the past. He could not change the things he had done or the people he had hurt. But maybe, just maybe, if there was any mercy left in this world for him, he could see Priya one last time, hold her hand, and apologize.

As the night grew colder, Murthy’s tears slowed, his body exhausted by the weight of his emotions. He closed his eyes, not to sleep but to dream—to dream of a time when he was a different man, a better man, the man he wished he had been. He prayed silently, not for his own salvation, but for forgiveness—from Priya, from Radha, from his parents, and from everyone he had wronged.

And as the first light of dawn began to break through the window, Murthy lay still, his breath shallow, his heart heavy with the burdens he had carried for so long. He did not know if he would wake again, but in that moment, as his last tears fell, he found a small comfort in his sorrow. Perhaps, if there was any justice left in the world, he would be given one last chance to make things right.

But for now, all he could do was wait—wait for the morning, wait for the end, wa

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it for the chance to see his daughter, and perhaps, for the first time in his long life, truly understand what it meant to be forgiven.

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                Part 2 - The Reincarnation

The phone rang on an overcast afternoon. Priya was at her office desk, surrounded by stacks of papers, when she saw her mother’s name flash across the screen. There was an unsettling pause on the other end of the line before Radha spoke. “Priya… your father… he’s gone.”

A silence hung between them, as heavy as the burden Priya had carried for years. Her father had suffered a stroke in the night, passing away in the same bed where he had spent his final, lonely days. Despite their estranged relationship, Priya felt a dull ache stir in her chest. She wasn’t attached to him—he had never been much of a father—but he was still her father. The man who had given her life, and the man who, in rare moments, had once tucked her into bed when she was a little girl. There were only a few memories like that, fragments of fleeting tenderness, but they were enough to compel her to return home for his final rites.

Priya arrived at the house, the familiar scent of incense and sandalwood mixing with the overwhelming sorrow of death. She stood by the bed where Murthy’s lifeless body lay, his face pale and peaceful for the first time in years. Her heart constricted as she gazed at the man who had been more a figure of authority than affection. Tears welled up in her eyes as she whispered a final goodbye, her voice barely audible over the wails of grieving relatives.

As she knelt by his side, memories of her childhood floated through her mind—the fleeting instances when he had smiled at her, the rare moments of kindness that had been overshadowed by years of distance. Priya knew that he had wanted to apologise in his final days, that beneath his cold exterior had been a man buried in regrets. But life had kept them apart, and now it was too late. She placed a flower on his chest, silently vowing that when she became a mother, she would never let her child feel the pain of unspoken love.

Two years later, Priya’s life had moved on in unexpected ways. Her mother, Radha, had arranged her marriage to Krishna, a kind-hearted man who brought a sense of warmth and comfort into her world. Their union was not born out of passion but out of mutual respect and affection, a partnership that bloomed over time. With Krishna, Priya found a love that healed the wounds of her past, and soon their happiness expanded beyond themselves when Priya gave birth to a beautiful girl.

They named her Sharade, a name that carried the grace of Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, music, and art. Sharade was the embodiment of joy and light, growing up in a home filled with laughter, tenderness, and love—everything Priya had promised herself she would give to her own child. From a young age, Sharade showed an innate talent for both dance and music, excelling in her Kuchipudi lessons and mastering the art of Carnatic singing. By the time she turned seventeen, she was a professional stage performer, mesmerising audiences around the world with her grace and talent.

For Priya, every performance of Sharade’s was a dream realised. Watching her daughter on stage, lost in the beauty of her art, made her heart swell with pride. Yet, Sharade herself was humble. To her, art was not about fame or recognition but a connection to something deeper, a part of her soul that flowed through her movements and songs. She danced not for applause, but for the joy of expressing herself through a medium that transcended words.

One fateful night, after a particularly breathtaking performance, tragedy struck. The car ride home, filled with laughter and recollections of the evening, ended in a sudden, violent crash. Priya awoke in the hospital hours later, her body bruised, but her heart shattered by the news that her daughter’s life had been irrevocably changed. Sharade had survived, but the accident had taken more than just her mobility. She had lost the use of her legs and her right hand, paralysing her dreams of ever dancing again.

The days that followed were filled with unbearable pain—both physical and emotional. Sharade underwent multiple surgeries, each more gruelling than the last. The doctors did what they could, but nothing could give her back what she had lost. She was confined to a wheelchair, dependent on her parents for every need, her once free-spirited soul trapped in a broken body.

Priya and Krishna’s world fell apart in those moments. Their vibrant, talented daughter, the light of their lives, was now living in a darkness they couldn’t chase away. People around them, some with well-meaning intentions, suggested sending Sharade to a home for the disabled, where she could be cared for. But Priya could never entertain such an idea. She had felt the cold sting of abandonment herself—of being unloved and neglected by her own father. She would never let Sharade feel that same pain.

“No,” Priya said firmly, dismissing all suggestions to part with her daughter. “Sharade is our life, and we will take care of her. We will give her all the love and support she needs.” And she did. Priya treated Sharade not as someone to be pitied, but as her beloved child, someone who still held within her a beautiful soul.

Priya’s unwavering love brought life back into Sharade’s eyes. Slowly, the girl began to rebuild herself from the inside out. She started a video podcast with her parents' help, speaking to people with disabilities, sharing stories of hope and resilience. Sharade’s voice, calm and soothing, reached across the world, touching the hearts of those who had lost faith in themselves. She shared her struggles, her pain, but also her determination to live fully, despite her limitations.

With time, Sharade even found a way to reconnect with her love for dance. Though she could no longer perform on stage, she developed a unique form of expression—dancing with her eyes, her facial expressions, and the movement of her left hand. Her online videos, where she displayed this new form of art, captivated people. It was proof that art, like love, was not bound by the physical form.

Sharade’s podcast became a source of inspiration for many, but to Priya, it was something even deeper—it was a testament to the power of love. The love she had given her daughter, the love she had received in return, and the love that had continued to grow even in the face of unimaginable hardship.

And so, life went on. Sharade, though confined to her wheelchair, lived a life full of meaning, full of love. Priya and Krishna found joy in watching their daughter rise from the ashes of her dreams, creating new ones, not bound by the limitations of her body but soaring on the wings of her spirit. Together, they proved that love and art were truly eternal forces, capable of overcoming any tragedy.

Sharade may never have danced across a stage again, but in her heart, in her soul, the dance never stopped.