It wasn’t a breakdown.
Rohan never screamed into pillows or punched walls. His undoing had been quieter—like colour fading from an old photograph. He was no longer looking for happiness.
Each day at the office felt more mechanical. He had stopped smiling at his own jokes. He’d scroll past messages without replying, attend calls without hearing. His weekends, once packed with friend meets and badminton, were now just silent marathons of web series and takeout. The food had lost taste. The shows had lost meaning.
He had everything he once thought would make him happy—a good salary, a decent apartment, the latest phone.
But after losing Rita forever, six months ago, something inside him had gone quiet.
Not the kind that cries. But the kind that stops asking.
Then, a week ago, it crumbled.
He was walking through the old Sunday market, half-lost, when he saw a roadside artist sketching a woman from a photograph. Her face was half-drawn—but even in that unfinished state, something about her expression stirred him.
He moved closer.
It was Rita!
No… Not her actually—but the resemblance was enough to stop his breath.
His knees buckled. He sat down right there, on the pavement, beside strangers.
The artist kept drawing.
The woman kept smiling.
And Rohan… he wept. Not loudly. But his inner strength had given up—holding back for too long.
That evening, as the sky outside dulled from gold to grey, Rohan lay on the floor beside the bed—not because he was tired, but because getting up had no purpose.
He stared at the ceiling fan. Switching the lights off. On again. Off.
Then he sat up abruptly and walked to the mirror.
“What the hell has happened of you?” he asked to his reflection. His face looked older. Not aged—just faded.
In frustration, he opened his old music app. Scrolled through playlists he hadn’t touched in years. He clicked on one: “School days!”
A familiar jingle played. His throat tightened.
He tried to hum.
But nothing came out.
Just that silence again—the one that seemed to follow him everywhere.
Feeling discomfort, he tried to run away from it. He unlocked his phone and opened his contact list—not to call anyone, but just to feel the soft touch of old names.
His thumb paused on a name:
Iyer Sir – Class 6 Science
The man had a strange affection for molecules, cricket stats, and students. He used to pat Rohan’s head and call him “Radio Rohan” because he’d hum tunes all the time—on his way to school, while solving equations, even during surprise tests.
Almost unconsciously, Rohan tapped the name.
It rang…
Hurriedly, he wanted to disconnect, but by then, the phone crackled—
“Hello? Who’s this?”
Rohan froze.
“Um… Iyer Sir? This is Rohan… Rohan Mehra… Class 6A, Blue House!”
A beat of silence. Then followed a warm, unmistakable laugh.
“Radio Rohan! Arrey, beta! After so many years…!”
His throat tightened. “I dialled by mistake, Sir. Actually…”
“Acha? That’s even better. I love this beautiful mistake of yours.”
Rohan laughed softly. The words felt so welcoming…
“So… where are you now?” Mr. Iyer asked.
“Bangalore. Working in tech. At least… supposed to be. Mmm…yes…supposed to be!” Rohan repeated to himself. He had stopped looking for happiness a while ago—maybe because he forgot where to look.
“Supposed to be?” the voice on the other side softened.
There was no drama. No sob story. But something inside Rohan gave way.
“I don’t know, Sir! It’s like I’m alive, but not… really here. I work, eat, sleep… but nothing matters. Even weekends feel like Monday previews. It’s like… the joy just packed up and left one day.”
Silence followed.
Then, “Do you remember the day you brought a radio to my class and hid it inside your lunch box?”
Rohan chuckled. “How can I forget, Sir? You made me dance to the tune to earn it back.”
“You were full of song back then. Not just in voice—in being. You hummed while brushing your teeth. You used to say, it gave your thoughts a rhythm.”
Rohan went still.
“I haven’t done that in years,” he whispered.
Then came Mr. Iyer’s question—a gentle one—but it struck like a lightning bolt.
“Rohan… when did you stop brushing with music on?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.
The initial guilt quickly swept him inside a time-warp which sucked him decades behind, into that small bathroom in Lucknow, aged twelve, foamy mouth, radio playing his favourite numbers, eyes full of daydreams.
That boy was still inside him. But silenced.
They talked for some time more—about cricket, about old classmates, about nothing and everything. And somewhere between that laughter and stillness, Rohan found the very thing he was looking for.
Not happiness, perhaps.
But the start of a happiness pursuit—one that was honest, grounded, and returning him to himself.
When the call ended, Rohan stared at his reflection in the darkened screen.
That night, as he brushed, he played a song on his phone.
He didn’t hum at first.
Then slowly, a note escaped his lips.
Just one.
But it was his.
And for the first time in years, he felt heard by himself.
_______________
Sometimes, looking for happiness isn’t about finding something new—it’s about something, once cherished, coming back to you.
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Happiness vs. Complacency — “The thin line dividing success and failure.”
LOOK FOR THE KEY — “Remember where the real search begins…”