# The Burning of Eternal Light: 3 The morning sun filtered through the hospital window in thin, trembling lines. Ravi sat on the edge of his bed, his spine curved like a question mark, watching the light scatter across the linoleum floor. Three weeks now—three weeks of corridors that smelled of disinfectant and despair, of nurses whose footsteps echoed purpose he could no longer fathom, of visitors who brought flowers that wilted faster than his own certainties. The doctor had said something about "treatment options" during yesterday's rounds. Ravi hadn't listened properly. Words had become like water—they flowed over him, left no mark. Outside, the city was indifferent. Traffic honked. Vendors called out their wares. The world spun on, unconcerned with the small, brittle man in room 407 who was slowly learning the grammar of surrender. His daughter Priya was coming today. He dreaded it—not her presence, but the effort required to seem less broken than he was. She had her own life to live, her own children who needed their mother unafraid. He would not burden them with the full weight of what was happening inside his chest, inside his cells, inside the strange darkness that had taken up residence behind his eyes. He picked up the newspaper from his bedside table. The headlines seemed to belong to another planet. Elections. Scandals. A film star's wedding. How trivial it all looked now, filtered through the lens of his own erasure. The morning deepened. A nurse came to take his temperature—a young woman whose name he'd already forgotten, whose competence was both comforting and coldly impersonal. After she left, Ravi returned to the window. The light had shifted. It always did. In that small movement, he found something approaching peace.

# To You

I don’t know who you are to me. I cannot name it. Lover, husband, friend, companion of the soul—no word fits, the way water cannot be held in a closed fist. I only know that I love you selflessly, absolutely, unconditionally. I have never asked for anything in return; not a promise, not a vow, not even a name. It is enough that you are here with me, that I feel the warmth of your existence. The struggle to be well, to be happy—I will fight that alone, as I always have. Life would be beautiful with you, easier perhaps, but if you are not there, I will live on with your love alone. I do not dwell on what you do not give; what you do give is everything, an ocean. I have loved you this much, and to ask for more would be to ask too much. To one as parched as I am, a handful of water is an entire sea.

I began to write a diary about you, long ago. I stopped midway, as I have stopped so many things in life midway. Let me start again, afresh. This time I will not stop.

I have faith that one day you will come to me. On that day, I will place this diary in your hands. You will read it. You will understand—on every page there is blood, water, fire.

I am waiting.

Where shall I keep you, tell me?

In my eyes—they blur with tears. In my heart—my heart is too small, and you are too vast. In my mind—how will this stubborn head of mine hold a mind like yours? What shall I offer in worship? The plate of offerings has no incense, no lamp, no flowers, no sandalwood—only tears and this withered soul. I have placed myself at your feet as an offering, accept this gift of empty hands. The devotion of the poor is true, for even when they have nothing to give, they can give themselves.

You are the most beautiful creation of this world. Because you exist, I feel the pulse of everything. Your breath in the wind, your whisper in the leaves, the cool touch of your fingers in the first drop of rain, the warmth of your smile in the light of dawn. Without you, this world is to me nothing but a lifeless map—lines drawn, but colorless.

Will you let me say a quiet prayer, my dear? In silent prayer I will search for you. Not in temples, not in mosques—in that secret sanctuary within myself, where the boundary between your soul and mine dissolves into one unbroken field of light.

I have left with you all my anger, my fear, my pride, my shame. What I think in my heart, what I desire in silence—I will no longer be ashamed to speak these to you.

And I, too, shall fall silent.

Silent, because some pain is larger than words, deeper than language. No one sees another’s tears. We may understand, but understanding is not the same as seeing, and understanding is not the same as touch.

You have said many times that this is not a relationship at all, that relationships cannot be like this. And it is true. This is not a relationship. Relationships exist between people. This is the fate of two flames who are incomplete without each other, yet the world has drawn them no map to live together, society has allotted them no address. There is no home in this world for two flames, only a path—and at the end of that path, one uncertain promise.

I have dragged myself through life for so long, the way a beast of burden drags its load, the way a weary river drags its current toward the sea. How much longer! If I could leave, I would be spared. You have so many ways to ease your sorrow. You have your writing, the infinite realm of your thought, the vast kingdom of your intellect. I have nothing. Only you.

# Only You. Only You.

Roddur, could you find the courage to take on my sorrows? Many men have more than one family. Couldn’t you make a little space for me? In some corner of your life, at the edge of your shadow, somewhere within the reach of your warmth, your breath?

You are no one, really. You are nowhere. You have only deceived me.

I set down the pen after writing this. I read it back. I laughed—a bitter, sorrowful laugh. Because I don’t believe it myself. The ramblings of fever. The mouth says one thing; the heart knows another.

It happens sometimes. This much love is unbearable, so the mind saves itself by saying, no, this is nothing, you are no one. “You are no one”—Roddur, this is not love talking. This is the scream of agony. When the light blinds you, if you can pretend it’s darkness, you find a little peace. But it doesn’t last. You are sitting inside me. Calling you “no one” is like lying to my own breath.

But then, right after…

Aren’t you listening? I am no one? All of that is wrong. Don’t listen to them.

You won’t judge me anymore. Not my behavior, not my thoughts, not my incoherence—nothing.

Listen.

There was a heart. Suffering burned it down completely. A heap of ash—no pulse, no warmth, no hope. Everyone thought it was over. It thought so too.

Then from that ash, with your touch, your presence, the oxygen of your love—it was born again.

It is newborn now. A little child. It looks at you with innocent, unblinking eyes. It doesn’t yet know the language of words. There is only one thing in its gaze: keep me.

Will you truly be well? Will you keep it?

Fine then—if you won’t keep it, kill it. Choke it now, this instant. It hasn’t learned to speak yet, can’t even cry out. It will be easy for you. It is your creation, after all. Born in your light, alive in your warmth. You can end it if you wish.

But know this: this time it will not return. Not ever.

You want to kill it?

Oh, one more thing.

In that video, at the end there was something said about twin flames finally meeting. In this life, or another, or in that mysterious bend of time where birth and death lose their difference. After separation comes surrender—when both flames lay down their pride, their fear, their flight at the earth’s feet. Then comes reunion—silent, inevitable, the way rivers finally meet the sea. When both flames are truly ready, when love stops being a cry and becomes a whisper of recognition; when longing stops grasping and becomes letting go. Then the universe itself clears the path, breaks the walls, builds the bridges.

Am I ready? I don’t know. Readiness—I can’t wrap my head around it. I only know how to love.

But this much I know: what pulls me toward you is not ordinary love, Roddur. It is recognition. Deep, ancient, running through the spine—a knowing as if I have recognized you not just in this life, but across all births. The crease of your smile, that moment when you go silent, that cruel and beautiful light in your angry eyes—all of it is like that song I once knew, whose words I’ve forgotten, but when I hear the first two notes, tears come. Something in my chest speaks: yes, yes, this is it, this is the melody, where have you been all this time?

Roddur, you are my Roddur, my light, my twin flame, my first and final truth. I am waiting. Not in patience—in prayer.

In silence, alone, turning away from the clamor of the entire world—facing only toward you.

Until we meet, this flame will burn. It may grow thin, perhaps tremble in the wind. But it will not go out.

Because a twin flame never dies, cannot die, for it is half of oneself. And how can one ever extinguish one’s own self?

Stay on my eyelids all night long. I am waiting.