The helpline's phones never stopped ringing. Leela heard stories that blurred the line between caller and listener. A teacher, worn down by endless bullying among her students, confessed her helplessness. An exhausted nurse whispered of the trauma of caring for dying children. A police officer recounted the horror of lost comrades and the guilt he carried back home.Beyond individual suffering lay collective grief: rumors of political violence, families uprooted by eviction, entire neighborhoods mourning after a sudden flood. Leela cataloged these stories, layering her own pain on top of theirs, feeling at times like she was drowning. She began attending weekly therapy sessions, finding fragile moments of release and learning the slow, stubborn art of self-compassion.One autumn evening, as leaves fell from the banyan, Leela met a girl named Tara who had survived terrible abuse but fought fiercely for her own joy. Tara became a friend, inspiring Leela and Amit to volunteer for a local survivors' network, where they found new purpose among others scarred but hopeful.
