The Choice
The Dream
“Are you sure?” The Goddess’s cheeks dimpled in barely concealed laughter. Meera felt her face flame—if such a thing were even possible in a dream.
“Do you find my wish amusing?” Meera could not keep the bite out of her voice.
The Goddess’s smile faded, her eyes turning unreadable. “Amusing? No. A little unusual, maybe. I just thought you would ask for something more… tangible, like a big house, money, or eternal youth. This—this is a little unexpected. Are you truly certain you don’t want something else? You could live the rest of your life in total luxury.”
Meera shook her head adamantly.
“Material things can make one happy temporarily. Once I get used to them, I might become miserable again. So, all I want is a choice. I should be the one to decide when my life ends. I don’t want to keep living a purposeless life, being a burden on anybody.”
The Goddess smiled. A little sadly.
“Ok, Meera, if that’s what you want. But remember, choice is a dangerous gift. There will be several moments in your life when you will not want to go on. All humans experience this. But they do not choose the hour of their death, and most are grateful for that mercy. You must think a hundred times over before manifesting your wish. Because you won’t get a do-over.”
Tendrils of doubt began creeping into Meera’s mind. What have I done? Am I playing with fire? Should I take it back, ask for something else? But she quashed the doubts before they took any firmer hold.
“I understand.”
“Your wish is granted. Tathastu.” The Goddess disappeared before she could ask anything else.
TRINNNNNGGGGGGGGG
Meera jolted awake at the alarm.
5:30 AM, Wednesday, July 26.
She sat up on her bed. The memory of her dream still vivid.
Did that happen? The dream felt so real, just like the last time when the Goddess had first appeared in her dreams a month back.
“What are you doing, Meera? Get up and get the children ready.” Sameer’s irritated voice broke her reverie.
The clock said 5:45 AM.
Oh shit. Today was a school day. The children will be late. She had been sitting on her bed for 15 minutes. She dashed out, her dream temporarily forgotten.
Sameer had already gone back to sleep.
She woke her 8-year-old son and 6-year-old daughter, who decided to be extra difficult that day.
She would never know how she managed to make breakfast and get the kids into their uniforms by the time their school bus arrived at 6:30 AM.
She was already exhausted, and the day had barely begun.
Sameer had just woken up, brushing his teeth near the washbasin, still relaxed, untouched by the weight of the day that was already pressing down on her.
“Pack a nice lunch for me today, maybe some biriyani. That asshat Abhishek keeps bragging about how his wife packs the best lunches for him every day.”
“Sameer, please, not today. Biriyani will take time, and I am already running behind today. I'll give it to you some other day. I promise.”
“You always have excuses ready. You have time to sit and daydream in the morning, but not cook something nice for your husband.”
Meera felt the fight coming up, just like it did almost every day. In recent years, it seemed like the smallest things could set her husband off, and she always bore the brunt of his mood swings.
He would launch into a tirade about how difficult life was for him and how hard he worked to keep his family comfortable, insisting Meera had it easy, simply managing the kids and the house.
The familiar throb of her ever-present migraine began to stir again, like an unwelcome guest that never truly left.
As usual, she ignored all the alarm bells in her head that told her this wasn’t normal; this wasn't what it should be like. She knew she had to go on. For the sake of her kids. At least until they grow up.
The balcony was Meera’s favorite place in the house. It was small, bordering on tiny, but she loved the freedom it offered. Unlike the rest of the house, which always reminded her of a dungeon, the balcony was open and gave her an uninterrupted view of the city skyline.
She had planted small flowering shrubs in little pots, caring for them like her children. Each new colorful blossom gave her as much delight as her own kids’ school achievements.
Meera had always loved sunflowers—their bold yellow faces, always turned toward the light, filled her with an inexplicable euphoria. But Sameer had dismissed the idea, saying they would take up too much space and require too much care. So she had tucked the longing away, like so many others, with a promise to herself: Someday.
And so, her balcony remained empty of the one thing she yearned for most. It was a quiet absence, invisible to everyone else but her. The sunflowers never came.
Sameer had left for the office. She had an hour to herself before starting lunch preparations.
As she watched a common myna flutter around the nearby tree, the memory of her dream surged back in full force.
Then again, surely that was nonsense. Goddesses don’t go around granting wishes to ordinary mortals like her.
They don’t.
Right?
And yet, dreams aren’t supposed to have sequels.
But this one did.
The First Visit
She remembered the first time the Goddess had come to her. It was about a month ago, after a particularly nasty fight with Sameer. The kind of fight where everything in her head spun and the ceiling fan had started to look dangerously inviting.
That night, she dreamt of her.
The Goddess looked impossibly young, perhaps even younger than Meera herself. She stood resplendent in a pool of moonlight. But today was amavasya, Meera’s brain remembered the pointless information even in her sleep. There shouldn’t be any moonlight tonight.
She looked young, probably younger than Meera herself. She dressed like women from Meera’s mother’s youth: a crisp cotton sari, hair tied back, gold bangles that chimed softly when she moved, like wind against old temple bells. But it was her face that held Meera’s attention. There was something resplendent about it, something that no human could possibly carry. Even in the haze of sleep, Meera knew she was not looking at a person.
“Who are you?” Meera had asked timidly.
“You can call me whatever you want,” the woman said. “Your scriptures have different names for me. It doesn’t matter.”
Meera began to think of her as the Goddess.
“What do you want?” Meera asked, half curious, half afraid.
“It’s more like—what do you want, Meera?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Goddess sighed. “Everyone wants something, Meera. You’ve shed more tears over the years than you’ve smiled. You don’t even pray much, so I can’t tell what’s on your mind. But you’re a good person. I want to help you.”
Meera was stumped. “But aren’t you omniscient? You’re supposed to know everything.”
“Well, technically yes,” the Goddess shrugged, “but it’s exhausting. Eight billion people, constantly keeping track of everyone’s thoughts? No, thank you. I mostly listen when people pray. That makes it easier to know what they want.”
Meera had said nothing. She had stopped praying long ago.
She thought hard. There were so many things she needed. Money, jewels, a bigger house, another shot at love, a good life for her children. Maybe a new life, an opportunity to start again. She could not decide. Nothing seemed right.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” said the Goddess as if sensing her dilemma.
Her voice was gentle, almost kind.
“I will come again.”
Meera did not remember waking up. There was no transition. Just the heavy silence of her room and the hum of the ceiling fan. But this had to have been a dream. She wasn’t even sure she still believed in a higher power, let alone that power’s ability to grant her anything she wanted.
What a weird dream that was.
But she still thought about it. What did she really want if she could have anything?
The Question That Lingered
A week had passed since the dream. But it stayed with Meera, lingering like a song she couldn't shake off.
The Goddess's words echoed in her mind: What do you want?
It was no longer about money or comfort. It was about relief. About escape. About control.
She knew what she wanted.
She could not live her life like her mother, who had spent her entire life raising her two children and caring for the family. She died at the ripe old age of 80, alone in her room. Her son, who lived in the US, did not bother to come for the last rites. Her daughter barely managed to do the needful alone, earning Sameer’s displeasure on the “ruined weekend.”
No, that would never be her life. She would have control.
The rational part of her brain argued that it was not real. This was her method of escape. Her brain was protecting her sanity by conjuring the supernatural.
Maybe so.
But a part of her waited for the Goddess to come back and grant her wish.
And she did.
The Night of Almost
That night, after the children had gone to sleep, Meera went to the balcony. A light breeze ruffled her hair. Meera’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Should I do it now? Will it work? Who will find me? Sameer or the children?
She shivered at the thought of her children finding her. They are so young. They need me.
She sat still, listening to the quiet, to the breath of the house.
The choice still hovered in the air, possible, waiting. The escape remained within reach.
Not Yet.
Tomorrow, she thought, the choice might be easier—or harder.
Choosing Life
One year later.
The vacation turned out to be better than Meera had expected. Not perfect but gentler, warmer, almost like stepping into a version of her life she had once dreamed of.
She had begun to change, quietly but steadily. There was a new steadiness in her—an awareness that she was no longer captive to fate. She was not drifting anymore. She had made a choice, and that choice gave her power.
It wasn’t easy. There were no miracles, no sweeping transformations. But piece by piece, Meera began to gather the parts of herself that had been chipped away over the years. The parts that laughed easily, that hummed while cooking her family’s and her favorite dishes. The part that lingered in the mirror a few seconds longer to meet her own eyes.
She started caring for herself in small, deliberate ways—an extra spoonful of sugar in her tea, a stolen hour to read, an afternoon nap, a long spa day, a beautiful new saree. She took care of her balcony garden more tenderly than ever. And at last, the sunflowers bloomed—tall, unapologetic, golden, bathing the balcony in yellow warmth. Her someday had finally arrived.
The boulder that had sat on her chest for so long began to shrink. It didn’t vanish overnight, but it lightened.
Sameer noticed.
He was no longer quite so sharp with her. The irritation in his voice dulled. He looked at her longer. Spoke a little more gently. Sometimes, he even listened.
It was as if he had started to see her again—not just as the woman who packed the lunchboxes and kept the house from collapsing, but as the vibrant, thoughtful, curious young gitl he had fallen in love with and married.
Their marriage, worn and weary as it was, began to heal.
The family vacation, after five long years of broken promises, brought them all closer. There were fights, of course—tired children, long drives —but there was laughter too. Shared jokes. Photographs. A sense of something slowly stitching itself back together. She finally began to feel it, a sense of belonging.
That night, the Goddess visited her again. A knowing smile on her face.
"So, Meera. Have you decided?"
"I almost did," Meera admitted. "But my family needs me."
"Ah. Love holds you here."
"Yes. And something else. I think I—I think I want to choose life. I don't know for how long. But I want to see my children grow. I want to plant more flowers. I want to sing again. I want to find moments of peace. And I don’t want to be the victim anymore. Life is unpredictable, but I must do my part to the best of my ability. I have to be responsible for my own happiness.”
The Goddess nodded slowly. "The choice remains with you. Always. But perhaps you will find you no longer need it."
“Maybe,” Meera smiled.
"Will I see you again?"
"Perhaps. But I think you are ready to carry this alone."
When Meera woke, the house was quiet, the early morning sunlight filtering through the curtains.
She breathed in deeply.
The choice was still hers. But she chose to stay.
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