The World of Forgotten dreams

It was another restless dawn in Bengaluru, the city awakening to its familiar symphony of honking traffic and the rich aroma of filter coffee drifting from countless homes. Arjun Mehra sat at his kitchen table, staring at the blue diary that had become his constant companion, its pages filled with fragments of a life he couldn't quite remember.

“Purple moon. Name 'Naina'. Ash city called Tamastara”.

The words, written in his own handwriting, stared back at him like accusers. For months now, he'd been getting awake at 3 a.m., gasping, his chest tight with a grief so profound it felt like drowning. In those moments between sleep and waking, he could see shards of a blazing skyline, a woman's sari curling in smoke, and always, always, the echo of silver payals jingling in the pre-dawn darkness.

But here he was, a software tester living a perfectly ordinary life, with no record of a Naina Mehra in any marriage registry he'd checked. His roommate Ishaan would joke, "Bro, maybe you binge too much late-night anime," but the ache in Arjun's chest was real—the kind of widower grief that made him wonder if he was losing his mind.

Dr. Kavita Rao's office had become his second home. The therapist, with her gentle probing and scientific explanations, suggested his brain had stitched together an ideal partner to escape burnout. But when Arjun mentioned Tamastara, something shifted in her expression—a flicker of recognition that made her pause mid-sentence.

"Describe her," Dr. Rao would say, "not her face, but everything else."

And Arjun would close his eyes, letting the memories wash over him like a tide: the sound of silver payals before dawn, the scent of jasmine hair oil that lingered on pillows, the feel of ink smudges on her ring finger from her calligraphy practice. These details felt more real than his own reflection.

It was during one of their sessions that Dr. Rao finally admitted the truth—years ago, another patient had muttered the same word, Tamastara, before vanishing without a trace. The confession hung between them like a bridge neither was ready to cross.

The city began to change after that, or perhaps Arjun simply started noticing. One humid evening, as he walked down MG Road, the streetlights flickered violet. For a split second, reality doubled—the familiar road became a cracked obsidian bridge, commuters morphed into hooded figures, and the air itself seemed to shimmer with otherworldly energy. Ishaan, walking beside him, saw nothing. Arjun's phone captured only static.

When Dr. Rao called him the next morning, her voice was shaky. "I dreamt about it too," she whispered. "The same visuals. What's happening to us?"

Together, they delved into local myths, finding references to Tamas-tara in Kannada folklore—"land beyond darkness," said to trap souls who die with unresolved love. The discovery should have felt like vindication, but instead, it filled Arjun with a dread that made his bones ache.

The coordinates in his diary led them to Ulsoor Lake on the night of a lunar eclipse. The water turned mirror-black, reflecting not their faces but something deeper, more ancient. The breeze carried the distant sound of conch shells, and when Dr. Rao's flashlight found the ancient Sanskrit carved on a door, they both knew there was no turning back.

"Remember her whole, or lose her whole."

They soon landed in streets paved with memories—floating photo negatives, echoing lullabies, and the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes. A hooded guide, who called himself Raakav, materialized from the shadows with a rule that sounded like a death sentence: "Find Naina's true face before sunrise, else Tamastara cements grief forever."

Through alleys showcasing frozen scenes, Arjun walked as if in a trance. Here was a wedding mandap, but the bride's face was a blur. There, a small rented apartment, walls charred and blackened. The realization hit him like a physical blow—perhaps Naina had died in a fire, a truth so painful his mind had locked it away.

"Grief hidden mutates into monsters," Dr. Rao urged, her voice echoing strangely in this realm between worlds. They found a charred diary page where Naina's handwriting addressed him directly: "If memories fade, follow the jasmine path."

The jasmine petals led them to a library of glass globes, each containing a different fragment of memory. Inside one globe, Naina stood intact, aware, her eyes filled with the love he'd tried so hard to forget.

"Arjun," she said, her voice like a song he'd been trying to remember his whole life. "I called you here. You chose to forget after the accident, but I lingered between realms."

He sobbed then, guilt unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. She forgave him with a smile that broke his heart all over again, but her warning chilled him: "Tamastara feeds on denial. Accept truth and we both wake."

Raakav revealed himself as the embodiment of Arjun's avoidance, hurling illusions of alternate happy timelines. The temptation to stay, to live in these beautiful lies, was almost overwhelming.

But Arjun gripped Naina's hand and chanted her full memory: their wedding night, the power cut, the candle that toppled, the blaze that consumed everything, his failed rescue. The truth splinters Raakav like glass, and Tamastara itself began to quake.

"Go," Naina whispered, fading peacefully as acceptance finally set her free. "Live for both of us."

Arjun kissed her one last time, tasting jasmine and goodbye, before leaping through the collapsing arch with Dr. Rao.

He woke in a hospital bed, Dr. Rao beside him, news flashes reporting an unexplained tremor near Ulsoor Lake. But his diary now held something new—a complete photograph of Naina smiling, proof of closure rather than obsession.

Months later, as he placed the photo on his workspace, it wasn't to brood but to honor. He'd found purpose in volunteering as a fire-safety trainer, transforming trauma into protection for others. Dr. Rao published a paper on "Shared Dream Realms & Bereavement," while Ishaan teased, "Bro, at least your nightmares paid off."

One glorious night of remembering, lived in truth, ingrained upon his memory as he learned to face each dawn without the weight of forgotten dreams. Instead, he had the memory of a love acknowledged, a grief honored, and a future finally free to unfold.

For sometimes, the greatest act of love isn't holding on—it's learning to let go.