The winds sang gentle chimes across her balcony as she stretched to tie her hair in a bun and start her chores for the day. Sheila was waiting for the weekend to arrive after a painstakingly long week at work. It was not the number of hours she spent cleansing cobwebbed minds and mending broken hearts at work. The surgical precision and persistent wilfulness in her style also drained her emotionally. No wonder a day off from work was the least she could ask for.

    Sundays have a special quality to them. They bring the relieving flexibility of sleeping hours and refreshing hues and aromas for the palate as we play with new recipes in the kitchen and sometimes have guests over to critique them. Finishing piled-up chores also has a cleansing effect on the mind, not just the cluttered corners at home. She smiled amusedly at the mountain of clothes, which formed every week on the armchair, resting peacefully in her room as if it was the sole reason for purchasing it. Unlike usual days, she let her moods take the lead, and her hands follow. Dishes or laundry, meals or music, she let her heart decide. After all, it was her mind that deserved real rest. 

    She had read about the two brains working in unison, each one better than the other. After years of making mistakes and trying differently every time, she learned when to use which brain. She knew she was gifted with analytics, linguistics, and introspective skills from her left brain. She learned to adopt empathy, balance, and creativity in her right brain through the pursuit of art and nature. She wanted to achieve her full human potential by tapping into unexplored treasures beneath both. She was yearning to learn what lies beyond neurons and pharmaceuticals and even the lofty promises of artificial intelligence. 

    “O, what a day!” she thought to herself, gazing upon the pink skyline outside her window as she sipped upon frothy and dusky Dalgona coffee in her favourite kulhad, which she had made during a pottery workshop last weekend. She thought of the raw, gritty feel on her bare hands dipping inside the comforting cold mud as she tried shaping a pot on the potter’s wheel. She looked up at the sky, hoping to find a shooting star like she had seen in the movies. She looked at the moon, her constant companion and at the stars shining bright like fireflies, yet sitting still like zodiacs in the making.

     “Who am I?” she wondered. Was it just her name, genes and work that defined her? Or was she born for a purpose rooted in her previous lives, higher than what this world demands and more profound than she could possibly comprehend? 

    Despite popular cynicism, she believed in angels and demons. She believed in the goodness inside every human being. She believed in roses and hummingbirds. She believed in magic, in the union of twin flames, and in the magnificent worlds beyond the earthly realm. And she hoped – she looked for signs from the Universe, she looked for cues from mother nature, and she searched for familiarities in her experiences. She wondered if her questions would be answered like boomerangs flying from heaven. She prayed to the higher entities, urging her own self to vibrate on frequencies higher than she did yesterday. She let her intuition guide her. 

    The pressure cooker hissed steam, waking her up from visions she loved dreaming of. A deep breath filled her lungs with a tangy, spicy favour of tamarind and chillies. She would finally reward herself with her favourite dish at day end. Comfort foods felt like home to her, where she could curl up in the bosom of the cool mattress and rest peacefully to prepare for the next day of news and opportunities. She was no less than a wounded warrior who had dressed her own wounds, wiped her own tears, and pulled up her socks again to wage against her nemeses – she was a woman, a wondrous wanderer for a soul and an explorer of the truth. 

    She woke up the next morning, walked hazily to the front door to grab the milk pouch on her doorstep, and slowly picked up the Times newsletter on the porch above. As the clockwork for her next day began, she soared back to reality, ready to fly with wings of fire. 


About the writer 

Dr. Bhakti, born to upper-middle-class, God-fearing, and religious doctor parents, has always been drawn towards understanding the intricate connection between the mind and body. This intuitive inclination led her to choose Psychiatry as her field of work. Over the years, she has delved into various areas of interest including child psychology, behavioral medicine, psychotherapy, mother and baby wellness, school mental health, personality disorders, and spiritual psychiatry.

Dr. Bhakti firmly believes in the power of art as a means of healthy emotional expression. Whether it's through music, colors, dance, or writing, she sees art as a portal to creating beauty in its most natural sense.

Currently, Dr. Bhakti practices in Udaipur, Rajasthan, where she continues her journey in Psychiatry, helping individuals navigate the complexities of their mental health and well-being.

Dr. Bhakti wrote this piece as her final assignment for a for a six-week Creative Fiction Writing Workshop.

This is what she had to say about the workshop.

"Learning to write fiction from Shweta was a truly transformational experience for me.

The assignments not only helped me visualise life and people in creative ways, but

also helped me channel my emotions into words and release them into the world for

readers to relate with. I am grateful to Inkspire for opening the doors to my untapped


Inkspire wishes Dr Bhakti all the very best on her writing journey. We hope to read more from her in the years to come.