It had been a week.
And surprisingly… everything was going fine.
Karthik had started getting used to this new life—the early mornings, the constant work, the small chaos of the hotel. It wasn't perfect, but it felt… manageable. Almost like he belonged there now.
Somewhere along the way, he had picked up a new habit.
Poetry.
No one really knew how it started. Maybe it was boredom, maybe curiosity—but now, it had become his thing. While cleaning rooms, while walking through crowded streets, even while doing absolutely nothing… he would just plug in his earphones and play the same lines again and again.
Same voice.Same words.
And yet, every single time… it felt new.
Sometimes he'd smile at a line he didn't even notice before. Sometimes he'd pause, thinking, "Wait… did it always mean this?"
It was strange.
It was fun...
He had even started working on his Hindi, and with Kaka's help, he began learning Urdu too—just so he could try writing his own poetry.
Though he was still an amateur, one day he wrote something that felt… unexpectedly beautiful:
"Hum ghulām-e-ishq is qadar thehre,ke rihaai ko dil nahin chahta.Hum tum par is qadar mare,ke dil ab jeena nahin chahta."
These few words, these few sentences, were very close to his heart. He would mumble them repeatedly .
He was immensely proud of himself, yet he was still scared to recite them in front of anyone—not even Kaka. He believed they wouldn't understand the depth of his words; and in a way, he was probably right.
One day, while cleaning a room, a line struck him. It was magnificent. Karthik actually jumped with excitement; he was so happy he could barely breathe. He took a few hurried steps toward the table where his diary was kept, his mind racing to lock the poetry onto the page.
He had almost reached the book when his mental disease kicked in.
The world didn't just tilt; it broke. He lost control of his body and slammed into the ground. His fingers scrambled for his pockets, desperate for his tablets, only for a cold realization to hit him: they were sitting in his staff locker, right next to his tiffin box.
He was alone. He accepted his death right then and there.
But he couldn't let go yet. His last wish was to write that one sentence. He tried to crawl, his head spinning and his body screaming in pain, but his mind felt strange—like it was floating on a river with a very fast flow.
He looked up at the watch hanging on the wall. 2:00 PM.
The hotel was quiet. Too quiet. His shift wouldn't end for hours. He had no hope of being rescued, and he knew the math. He had 20 minutes to live if no one came with his pills.
As his eyes started to close, the only thing left was the rhythm of that unwritten poem.
He closed his eyes, and suddenly, he saw them—the faces of the people he cared for. He realized he was leaving them behind without ever repaying their kindness or the support they had given him. That thought hit him like a jolt; it gave him a sudden motivation to live, a desperate hope to be rescued. It couldn't end here. Not like this.
He forced his eyes open and looked at the main door. It was locked. He looked at the window, but he was on the third floor. He was trapped. He couldn't even lift his arm, let alone get to the door.
With a shaking hand, he reached into his pocket for his pen, thinking he could at least write those last lines on his arm. As he struggled, his hand brushed his phone. Maya.
He didn't have much hope she could reach him with his medicines in under twenty minutes, but he called anyway. Maya picked up, her voice loud and cheerful, greeting him with all her usual energy. Karthik tried to scream for help, but he had no strength. The only sound that came out was a strange, guttural noise, like an ostrich.
Maya started laughing. "Not a good time for prank calls, Karthik!" she teased. She made some cat sounds back at him and declined the call.
Karthik wanted to cry, but not a single tear came. He called her again, and as the second ring started, he lost consciousness.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was in a hospital. It wasn't Maya's clinic. Fizza was sitting there with her eyes closed, murmuring a prayer. Maya was around the corner, talking quietly with a doctor. Karthik felt like lead; he was still too weak to talk or even move his body.
Suddenly, Kaka entered the room. He came running to Karthik's side and hugged him, shouting to everyone that he was finally awake. The doctor helped shift him into a comfortable sitting position. Maya came near and asked if he wanted water or anything at all.
Karthik didn't answer. Instead, he rolled his eyes toward the pen kept on the table. Maya understood; she tore a page from a nearby book and placed it on his lap.
As he began to write, the doctor sat near him, explaining what had happened. He talked about his condition and used a heavy term: "Refractory Status Epilepticus." Karthik didn't understand what it meant and didn't really care. A small smile appeared on his face anyway.
He had finished the sentence.
" wo kis gham mein sharab peete hain ? , unhein bataiye humne bhi mohabbat ki hai "