Promise

In the twilight air of 2400 BC, the world seemed hushed beneath a copper sky. Sheen walked beside Rabindranath Tagore along a dusty path strewn with dry leaves. The wind carried faint songs from faraway villages and the scent of old earth. They spoke softly, their voices moving like ripples across still water.

Ahead, they noticed a woman sitting by a broken well. Her hair was tangled, riddled with lice; her lips moved in lonely laughter. The villagers had long turned away from her, whispering that she was cursed—touched by madness.

Sheen stopped, eyes wide with disbelief. “Why has this happened?” she asked. “Why does no one help her?”

Rabindranath looked down, his gaze thoughtful and sorrowful. “The world fears what it does not understand,” he began. “Birth, sickness, the mind—these are the mysteries of being. Not all can bear to face them.”

But Sheen pressed on, her voice trembling. “Why didn’t anybody help her? She could have been saved.”

Rabindranath said nothing. His silence was heavier than any truth.

Sheen turned back to the woman and whispered, more to herself than to Tagore, “I’ll prove them wrong. I’ll show the world how able such souls can be—if only someone holds their hand, shows them the right cause.”

Rabindranath’s eyes, reflecting the dying light, rested on her. “And how will you do that, Sheen?”

“I’ll pray,” she said quietly. “I’ll pray to be given the chance… even if it means in another life.”

The wind rose, carrying the faint echo of her vow across centuries.

In her next life, the prayer was answered. Sheen was born bipolar, her mind dancing between shadow and brilliance. But Tagore remained, ageless and wise, her teacher once again. Under his guidance, she turned her struggle into strength. She wrote, taught, and created with a flame that could not be dimmed.

And in time, she proved it—mental illness was not a curse, nor a limitation. It was a different language of the soul, waiting for those with patience and love to listen.