31-01-2026, 10:33 PM
Chapter 26: The 11th Day & The Parting That Binds
The 11th day began with the quiet hum of the city waking outside the private hospital window. Vikram was still in bandages — ribs taped, arm in a sling, face bruised but healing. He could walk short distances now, but every step cost him. Yet he insisted on going.
Mirna was ready to leave for the new camp — 60 km away. She had packed her small bag, salwar neat, braid tight. But her eyes kept drifting to Vikram.
Mohan’s car waited outside. Vikram refused the wheelchair. He walked — slow, leaning on Mirna’s arm — to the elevator, then to the car. She didn’t protest. She just stayed close.
The drive was silent at first. Mohan drove, glancing in the rear-view now and then. Vikram and Mirna sat in the back — her hand near his, not holding, just close enough to feel.
Mirnaa looked at him and said. “You didn’t have to come with me to the camp.”
Vikram smiled softly. “I wanted to.”
He nodded. No more words needed.
The new camp site unfurled in a quiet stretch of tents and greenery — the same NGO-Church banner fluttering, organizers unloading supplies, nurses setting up cots. Vikram led Mirna through the dust, her fingers grazing his as they stepped into the familiar bustle.
The head organizer — a lean man with a gentle smile — welcomed them, eyes glinting with the trust they’d earned. He drew Vikram aside while Mirna started packing her stuff.
His voice was low and earnest. “You love her, don’t you?”
Vikram nodded, warmth rising in his chest. “Yes.”
“Proposed yet?”
“Not yet,” Vikram confessed. “But she loves me too — I know it.”
The organizer’s expression softened. “Tell her soon. She’s back to her Kerala church — get their blessing, marry her. Mirna’s obedient, innocent — we’ve watched her all these years, like family. She’s only ever cared for you this way. Don’t break her trust — take good care of her.”
Vikram looked down at his bandages, then back at the man. “Now that you said it… I have confidence. I will soon. Not at this time.” He gestured to his wounds. “I want to tell her when I’m fully recovered.”
The organizer laughed gently. “I’m surprised — while everyone here sensed your love for each other, you two didn’t share it even after 10 days?”
Vikram went silent and shy.
The man patted his shoulder. “Take your time. She’ll wait.”
Two–three hours passed. Vikram watched her from a distance — packing, folding linens, saying goodbyes to other nurses. She moved with quiet grace, but her eyes kept searching for him.
Mirna had no mood to go. She waited…
As the bus horn honked, she turned to him.
Tears flowed when Vikram said goodbye. Her frame trembled as he pulled her close — careful of his bandages. She clung to him, face buried in his shoulder.
He murmured, “We’ll meet soon.”
The parting was heavy. Everyone around felt bad for how things were unfolding. The nun felt bad… she just wanted one of them to ask her permission — “Sister, I need to stay” or “Sister, I need her.” But no one opened their mouth. She couldn’t voluntarily make Mirna stay back.
She wiped her tears and took Mirna into the bus.
She said to Mirna, “He will be okay soon… hope you both shared your numbers.”
Mirna realised — she never gave her number.
She quickly wrote it on a small paper, leaned out the window, and threw it.
Vikram caught it — struggling on the ground, bandages pulling, but he caught it.
As the bus pulled away, Vikram shouted, “We meet soon!”
Her tear dropped… and it turned into a smile.
She waved from the window until the bus turned the corner.
Vikram stood there, paper in hand, watching the dust settle.
He looked at the number — simple, neat handwriting.
Then he looked at the road ahead.
He knew: this was not goodbye.
It was the start of something that wouldn’t let go.
The 11th day began with the quiet hum of the city waking outside the private hospital window. Vikram was still in bandages — ribs taped, arm in a sling, face bruised but healing. He could walk short distances now, but every step cost him. Yet he insisted on going.
Mirna was ready to leave for the new camp — 60 km away. She had packed her small bag, salwar neat, braid tight. But her eyes kept drifting to Vikram.
Mohan’s car waited outside. Vikram refused the wheelchair. He walked — slow, leaning on Mirna’s arm — to the elevator, then to the car. She didn’t protest. She just stayed close.
The drive was silent at first. Mohan drove, glancing in the rear-view now and then. Vikram and Mirna sat in the back — her hand near his, not holding, just close enough to feel.
Mirnaa looked at him and said. “You didn’t have to come with me to the camp.”
Vikram smiled softly. “I wanted to.”
He nodded. No more words needed.
The new camp site unfurled in a quiet stretch of tents and greenery — the same NGO-Church banner fluttering, organizers unloading supplies, nurses setting up cots. Vikram led Mirna through the dust, her fingers grazing his as they stepped into the familiar bustle.
The head organizer — a lean man with a gentle smile — welcomed them, eyes glinting with the trust they’d earned. He drew Vikram aside while Mirna started packing her stuff.
His voice was low and earnest. “You love her, don’t you?”
Vikram nodded, warmth rising in his chest. “Yes.”
“Proposed yet?”
“Not yet,” Vikram confessed. “But she loves me too — I know it.”
The organizer’s expression softened. “Tell her soon. She’s back to her Kerala church — get their blessing, marry her. Mirna’s obedient, innocent — we’ve watched her all these years, like family. She’s only ever cared for you this way. Don’t break her trust — take good care of her.”
Vikram looked down at his bandages, then back at the man. “Now that you said it… I have confidence. I will soon. Not at this time.” He gestured to his wounds. “I want to tell her when I’m fully recovered.”
The organizer laughed gently. “I’m surprised — while everyone here sensed your love for each other, you two didn’t share it even after 10 days?”
Vikram went silent and shy.
The man patted his shoulder. “Take your time. She’ll wait.”
Two–three hours passed. Vikram watched her from a distance — packing, folding linens, saying goodbyes to other nurses. She moved with quiet grace, but her eyes kept searching for him.
Mirna had no mood to go. She waited…
As the bus horn honked, she turned to him.
Tears flowed when Vikram said goodbye. Her frame trembled as he pulled her close — careful of his bandages. She clung to him, face buried in his shoulder.
He murmured, “We’ll meet soon.”
The parting was heavy. Everyone around felt bad for how things were unfolding. The nun felt bad… she just wanted one of them to ask her permission — “Sister, I need to stay” or “Sister, I need her.” But no one opened their mouth. She couldn’t voluntarily make Mirna stay back.
She wiped her tears and took Mirna into the bus.
She said to Mirna, “He will be okay soon… hope you both shared your numbers.”
Mirna realised — she never gave her number.
She quickly wrote it on a small paper, leaned out the window, and threw it.
Vikram caught it — struggling on the ground, bandages pulling, but he caught it.
As the bus pulled away, Vikram shouted, “We meet soon!”
Her tear dropped… and it turned into a smile.
She waved from the window until the bus turned the corner.
Vikram stood there, paper in hand, watching the dust settle.
He looked at the number — simple, neat handwriting.
Then he looked at the road ahead.
He knew: this was not goodbye.
It was the start of something that wouldn’t let go.
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