Hour 145. 1:17 PM. KEM Hospital, Parel. ICU Ward.*
_Beep... beep... beep..._
The sound changed.
It wasn't slower. It wasn't faster.
It was _different_.
Sharp. Alert. Panicked.
_Beep... beep... beep... beep..._
Isha was dozing on the steel chair. Sunita's head was in her lap. Rahul was outside, on a call, arranging a private room transfer. Six days of ICU was enough.
The change in the machine woke Isha first.
Her eyes flew open. To the monitor. Heart rate: 90 → 112 → 125.
To the bed.
Vikram Singh Rathore's eyes were open.
Not fluttering. Not dreaming.
Open.
Wide.
Black irises darting left, right, up, down. Like a caged animal.
His chest was rising too fast. The oxygen mask fogged with every exhale.
His hands... his hands were clawing at the sheet. At the IV. At the air.
"Vikram?" Isha's voice broke the six-day silence. She was on her feet in a second. At his side. "Vikram, hey, hey, it's me. It's Isha. You're okay. You're in the hospital. You're safe."
His head snapped towards her.
And Isha died.
A second time.
Because there was nothing in his eyes.
No recognition. No 'Madam'. No 'three feet'. No warmth. No anger. No _Vikram_.
Just blank, terrified, animal confusion.
He looked at her like she was a stranger.
Worse. Like she was a threat.
"Who... who are you?" His voice was sandpaper. Six days of tubes, no water, no use. It was broken. Hoarse. But it was _his_. And it was asking who she was.
Isha's heart stopped. Then restarted. Wrong.
"Vikram," she whispered. She reached for his hand. Instinct. Six days of holding it. "It's me. Isha. Isha Sharma. From Dombivli? The writer? You... you saved me. You wrote 'C' on my hand."
He flinched. Violently.
His hand jerked away from hers like she was fire.
"Don't touch me!" The words were a snarl. A cornered dog. "Who are you? Where am I? What... what is this?" He yanked at the IV in his arm. Blood beaded instantly.
The door burst open. Dr. Mehta. Two nurses. Rahul behind them. Sunita behind Rahul.
"Restrain him, gently!" Dr. Mehta ordered. "He's disoriented. Post-trauma amnesia. It's common. Don't panic. Miss Sharma, step back please."
Step back.
Three feet.
The rule was back. But not from Vikram. From a doctor. Because Vikram didn't know the rule. Vikram didn't know _her_.
Isha stumbled back. Into Rahul. He caught her. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He was staring at Vikram. At his best friend, his shadow, his brother... looking at them like they were kidnappers.
"My name is Dr. Mehta," the doctor said calmly. Soft voice. Slow movements. "You're in KEM Hospital, Mumbai. You were in an accident five days ago. A car accident. You have a head injury. You're safe now. These people are your family. They're here to help."
Vikram's eyes went from Dr. Mehta to Sunita.
Sunita, who had been crying for six days. Who had slept on the floor. Who had made poha every morning.
Sunita, who took one step forward, hands joined. "Beta... Vikram beta... main Maa hun. Sunita. Teri... teri Maa."
Vikram stared at her. At her tears. At her sari. At her steel tiffin in her hand.
And his face... his face showed nothing. No spark. No memory. No son.
"I don't... I don't have a mother," he said. The words were quiet. Flat. Not cruel. Just... empty. "I don't know you."
Sunita made a sound. The same sound she made at Hour 48 when the beep missed. But worse. This was a death. Her son had died and left a stranger in his body.
Her legs gave out. Rahul caught her before she hit the floor.
"Amnesia," Dr. Mehta said again. To Isha this time. To Rahul. "Retrograde amnesia. It's the brain protecting itself. The trauma of the accident... his mind has blocked it. And sometimes, it blocks everything around it. Name. Age. People. It's temporary. Usually. We need to run tests. CT scan. Neuro evaluation. But... prepare yourselves. He may not remember you. For days. Weeks. Or..." He didn't finish.
Or ever.
*3:00 PM. Private Room 302. Hour 147.*
They had moved him. ICU was too chaotic for an amnesiac patient.
Now he was in a bed. White sheets. No machines. Just a small heart monitor. _Beep... beep..._ slow again. Calm.
He was calm because they had given him a sedative. A light one. "To stop the panic," Dr. Mehta said. "Panic makes the memory walls thicker."
Isha sat three chairs away. Not three feet. Three chairs.
She couldn't look at him. If she looked, she would break.
So she looked at her hands. At the faint 'C' still there.
He didn't know what it meant. He didn't know she existed.
Rahul stood by the window. Looking out. At Mumbai. At the city his father owned. That he would own. That meant nothing.
"He asked me who I was," Rahul said. His voice was empty. Like Vikram's eyes. "He said 'Are you the doctor?'. I said 'No. I'm Rahul'. He said 'Am I supposed to know you?'. Isha... he asked me if he was supposed to know me."
Sunita sat on the floor again. She refused the bed. Refused the chair.
"He ate the poha," she whispered. "Nurse ne khilaya. Doctor ne bola 'try karo'. Maine diya. Usne khaya. Par..." She looked up at Isha. Eyes red. Dead. "Par bola 'yeh kya hai? Accha hai'. _Accha hai_. Mera Vikram bolta tha 'Maa, teri poha ke bina din shuru nahi hota'. Ye... ye nahi tha."
*7:00 PM. Hour 151.*
Dr. Anjali Deshpande. Neuropsychologist. Came in.
She talked to Vikram. Alone. For one hour.
Isha, Rahul, Sunita waited outside. Like they had for six days. But this was worse. Six days they waited for him to live. Now they waited for him to _come back_.
Dr. Anjali came out.
"Total retrograde," she said. Clinical. Kind. "He remembers his name. Vikram Singh Rathore. He knows he's 29. He knows basic facts. Capital of India. 2+2. But personal memory... gone. Childhood. Family. Work. You three... gone. He doesn't know what a 'bodyguard' is. He doesn't know 'Malhotra'. He doesn't know 'Dombivli'. He doesn't know 'Isha'."
Isha stood up. "Will it come back?"
"Maybe," Dr. Anjali said. "Smells. Sounds. Photos. Music. Routine. Sometimes they trigger memories. Like a key. But we can't force it. If we push, the brain builds stronger walls. We have to... reintroduce. Slowly. Gently. As strangers."
Strangers.
Isha Sharma, who had lived in his three-feet orbit for seventeen days, was a stranger.
Sunita, who had called him 'beta' for two years, was a stranger.
Rahul, who had been his only friend/enemy for five years, was a stranger.
*11:03 PM. Hour 155.*
Night. Visiting hours over. But Dr. Mehta made an exception. "Five minutes. Don't stress him."
Isha went in alone.
Vikram was awake. Sitting up. Pillows behind him. Looking out the window. At Mumbai's lights.
He looked... whole. No bandages now. Just a small scar on his forehead. Hair ruffled. Eyes clear.
He was Vikram.
But he wasn't.
He turned when she came in.
And he gave her a look.
Polite. Distant. The look you give a nurse you don't know.
"Hi," he said. Voice still hoarse. But stronger. "You're... Isha, right? The doctor told me. You... you were in the car with me?"
You were in the car with me.
Not 'I saved you'.
Not 'Are you okay Madam'.
Not 'Three feet'.
_You were in the car with me._
Like she was a co-passenger. A statistic.
Isha's throat closed. "Yes," she managed. "I was. You... you pushed me out. You saved my life."
Vikram frowned. Like he was trying to remember a dream. "I did?" He looked at his hands. Large. Scarred. Capable. "I don't... I don't remember. Sorry. They said it might take time."
Sorry.
He was saying sorry to her.
Vikram Singh Rathore, who never said sorry, was saying sorry to Isha Sharma.
"It's okay," Isha said. The lie was easy. She had been lying for six days. "I'm just... glad you're awake."
He nodded. Polite. "Thank you. For... for being here. The doctor said you didn't leave. For five days."
He didn't know why.
He thought it was kindness. Charity.
He didn't know it was love.
"Do you want..." Isha's voice shook. "Do you want to try and remember? I can tell you... things. About us. About..."
"Dr. Anjali said not to push," Vikram cut her off. Not rudely. Gently. Like you would to a stranger. "She said memories come back when they want. If we force... it hurts. So... maybe not today?"
Maybe not today.
Maybe not ever.
Isha nodded. She couldn't speak.
"Okay," she whispered. "Not today."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," he said.
Her heart jumped.
He remembered. He remembered something.
"Yes?" She turned back. Hope was a violent thing.
He gave her a small smile. Polite. Distant.
"What's... what's 'C'?" He held up his palm. The 'C' was almost gone now. Six days. Water. Sweat. But it was there. Faint. "The nurse said it was there when I came in. Permanent marker. Did... did I write it? Do you know what it means?"
Isha looked at the 'C'.
Congratulations.
Can't leave you.
Come back to me.
The letter that had started everything.
The letter that now meant nothing.
She looked at him. At this stranger with Vikram's face.
And she lied again. The biggest lie.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe you were writing something. And... and didn't finish."
Vikram nodded. Accepting it. "Okay. Thanks."
Thanks.
He thanked her.
For not telling him.
For not breaking him.
Isha walked out.
And finally, after six days, she broke.
In the hallway. In Rahul's arms.
Because her Vikram was awake.
And he was gone...
Author's Note:
*He's awake. He doesn't remember us. No Isha. No Sunita. No Rahul. No 'C'.*
*Amnesia is total. Doctor said don't push. We reintroduce him to life slowly.
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