Echoes Of A Hollow Heart

 Girish Karmarkar lived in a modest two-bedroom flat in Kothrud, above a shuttered tailoring shop and a noisy mithai store. The building was old, its walls stained with memories of past monsoons and the quiet erosion of time. His flat was sparsely furnished—an iron-framed bed, a wooden desk, a rusting ceiling fan that creaked softly like his voice. The only decoration was a framed photo of his late wife, Vaijayanti, smiling in a yellow saree, her eyes full of mischief he had long forgotten how to respond to. 

They had been married for eight years. Vaijayanti had been a schoolteacher, full of warmth and laughter. The inability to have children did not rob away the joy from them. She died of a sudden brain aneurysm one morning while brushing her hair. Girish had found her slumped on the floor, the comb still in her hand. After her death, he never remarried. He told people he was too busy, but the truth was simpler: he had no room left inside him for new grief. 

At 43, Girish worked as a senior clerk at a Pune Municipal Corporation’s ward office. His job was to process applications—water connections, property tax adjustments, birth certificates. He wore pale shirts, always tucked in, with trousers that hung stiffly from his waist. His shoes were polished but old, like his habits. He carried a leather satchel that had faded from brown to a tired grey. 

The third-floor office was a mausoleum of monotony. The walls were painted a dull cream, the ceiling fans spun lazily, and the fluorescent lights buzzed like bored insects. The staff spoke in low tones, their conversations limited to cricket scores and pension updates. Girish’s desk was by the window, but he rarely looked out. He preferred the order of paper files to the chaos of the world. 

In mid-July, just as the rains began to soften Pune’s heat, a new intern joined the office—Renu Mehta, 24, a postgraduate student from Fergusson College. She was the daughter of Class one officer in Mantralaya at Mumbai. Her outgoing nature and smiling demeanour made Girish dismiss her as an entitled kid who got the assignment due to her father’s connections. She arrived wearing a mustard kurta with hand-embroidered flowers. Her silver earrings caught the light, and her canvas tote bag had a quote from Rumi: “Try not to resist the changes that come your way.” 

She was assigned to Girish’s department. On her first day, she greeted everyone with a cheerful “Namaste!” Later during the day, she asked Girish if she could rearrange the dusty files for easier access. Girish looked up from his paperwork and said, “We’ve managed fine for twenty years. No need to fix what isn’t broken.” 

She smiled. “But maybe it’s just tired, not broken.” 

Her presence was disruptive. She hummed while working, sketched during lunch breaks, and once brought homemade brownies for the entire staff. She quoted poetry, challenged procedures, and asked questions no one had bothered to ask in years. 

Girish found her irritating. She was too loud, too curious, too alive. 

One afternoon, Renu approached Girish with a book—The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.

“You might like this,” she said.

“I don’t read poetry,” he replied.

“It’s not poetry. It’s philosophy disguised as poetry.” 

Noticing that others were looking at them, he took the book reluctantly. That night, he opened it and read: 

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.” 

He closed the book and stared at the ceiling. Something stirred—a memory, perhaps, or the echo of a thought he hadn’t dared to entertain in years. It was like an old rusted machine had started working after a fresh overhaul. 

Over the next few weeks, their interactions deepened. Knowing Girish’s nature, Renu never pried, but she listened. She asked him about his childhood, his favorite thinkers, his views on time. Girish, surprised by his own openness, began to speak—not as a clerk, but as a man who once believed in ideas. 

One day over lunch he told her about his father, a philosophy professor who died of a heart attack when Girish was just 19. About how he had wanted to study philosophy at JNU but had instead taken a clerical job to support his mother and younger sister. Then he spoke about Vaijayanti, who had once danced in the rain outside their flat, and how he had watched her from the doorway, afraid of getting wet. 

One afternoon, she asked, “Do you believe people can change?”

He replied, “Change is a myth. People only pretend.”

She smiled. “Then you haven’t met someone who made you question yourself.” 

That evening, Girish pulled out his old notebook from his cupboard. Inside were yellowed pages filled with scribbles—quotes, questions, fragments of thought. He added a new line:

“Is evolution the shedding of certainty, or the quiet acceptance of doubt?” 

Before Renu arrived, the office had felt like a waiting room for retirement. The air was thick with resignation. No one questioned anything. Files moved slowly, conversations were transactional, and laughter was rare. 

After Renu, things shifted. She brought colour—literally and metaphorically. She painted a mural on the office balcony wall: a banyan tree with roots that curled into words. She organized a poetry reading during lunch, where even the peon had to recite a couplet. She convinced the supervisor to allow digital filing for new applications. 

Girish didn’t participate in the mural or the poetry reading. But he watched. And he could sense something inside him softening. 

One Sunday, Girish sat by his window, watching a Gulmohar tree sway in the breeze. Its leaves fell gently, like confessions. He thought of Renu’s sketches, her laughter, her refusal to conform. 

He wrote:

झाड कधी पानांचा शोक करत नाही

जीवनचक्रावरचा त्याचा विश्वास कधी ढळत नाही

“The tree does not mourn its leaves.

 It trusts the cycle” 

He began writing again—short reflections on memory, identity, and impermanence. He didn’t show them to anyone. But they existed. And so did he. 

Renu’s internship ended just before Diwali. On her last day, she stayed back till everyone had left. She walked up to him and handed him a sketch—of the office balcony, with two silhouetted figures sitting side by side. One was clearly him. 

“You’re evolving,” she said. “Not into someone else, but into who you were meant to be.” 

He nodded, unable to speak. She surprised him with a hug and left with a smile.

The office felt quieter after she was gone. But not empty. 

A week later, Girish did something he hadn’t done in years—he took a walk with no destination. He boarded the Metro to Deccan and wandered leisurely down FC Road, past the bookstores, the juice stalls, the college students laughing in groups. 

He wore a soft cotton kurta that Vaijayanti had once gifted him, paired with jeans that now after so many years felt unfamiliar. He stopped at a roadside café and ordered filter coffee. He browsed books at a pavement stall and bought a second-hand copy of Siddhartha. 

As he walked, he heard a street musician playing an old Lata song on a flute. The notes curled through the air like fragrance, delicate and aching. 

He paused. Closed his eyes. Let the music wash over him. 

For the first time, he felt—not just heard—the melody. 

He had now rediscovered parts of himself that Vaijayanti once loved. He could almost hear her whispering in his ears, “Stay like this. Stay evolved.”