Healing Dialogue for a Long Distance Couple

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“We didn’t know that love could grow silent while we were chasing stability in distant cities. That our careful plans, made with logic and sacrifice, could slowly erase laughter from our evenings and trust from our silences. We thought we were being responsible by living apart — two salaries, two careers, two rented houses, two bus routes. But somewhere, we forgot how to return to one another. We forgot how to hold space for each other’s tiredness, how to share a meal that wasn’t through video calls, how to fight without the fear of disconnection. This conversation didn’t solve everything — but for the first time in years, we looked at each other without calculation or blame. We saw the weariness, the longing, and the quiet courage it had taken to keep going. And with Madhukar’s patient guidance, we were asked not to fix, but to soften. To start with one letter. One shared calendar. One weekend without screens. One promise to relearn how to live side by side. It felt unfamiliar, even fragile. But it was real. And it was ours.”

Part One: The First Meeting — Under the Neem Tree

Setting: A hot afternoon in April. Madhukar's mud house, just outside Shivamogga, is still. The neem tree in the courtyard casts a soothing shade. A thin breeze rustles the prayer flags tied to a bamboo fence. Meena and Ravi arrive by bus after a long journey, carrying silence heavier than their bags.

Characters:

Meena (38): Postal department employee in Shivamogga. Grounded, resilient, but emotionally exhausted.

Ravi (39): IT professional posted in Bengaluru. Smart, quiet, emotionally distant, yet deeply yearning for connection.

Madhukar (56): Former scientist, now living simply. Known for gentle guidance, living off-grid with clarity and warmth.

They sit awkwardly. Meena sits upright, arms crossed. Ravi looks tired, slouched. Madhukar observes without judgment.

Madhukar: “You’ve travelled quite a distance. What were you hoping to find here that you couldn’t find back home?”

Meena (dryly): “A home.”

Ravi: “We’ve been married ten years. But I think we’ve shared space for maybe one of those years in total.”

Madhukar (softly): “Why?”

Ravi: “My job doesn’t allow transfers. Her post is fixed. We tried... we filed requests, pulled strings. But we stopped trying after a point.”

Meena (stiffly): “What’s the point in building a family when we can't even eat dinner together? We didn’t have children... not because we didn’t want to. We just didn’t know how we’d even manage a fever, let alone a childhood.”

Madhukar (quietly): “So instead of sharing the burden, you shared the silence.”

(They look away.)

Madhukar: “What do you talk about, when you talk?”

Ravi (shrugging): “Updates. Her office politics. My deadlines. Groceries. Bills.”

Meena: “No fights. No passion. Just... maintenance.”

Madhukar: “You both became administrators of a marriage. Not lovers, not creators. Just two lonely people in permanent wait mode.”

(A pause. Meena looks like she might cry, but doesn’t.)

Meena: “Even our weekends feel like rehearsals. We spend most of it packing up again.”

Madhukar: “What does your body feel like when he’s gone?”

(Meena is caught off guard.)

Meena: “Cold. Closed.”

Ravi (whispering): “I feel guilty when I touch her. Like I don’t have the right anymore.”

Madhukar: “So you both waited for perfect conditions to love. Like farmers refusing to plant until there’s a guarantee of rain.”

(He offers buttermilk. They sip silently.)

Madhukar: “What if we healed the marriage first — and let life follow?”

Meena: “But how? We’re still stuck in the same jobs.”

Madhukar: “Jobs don’t imprison. Fear does. Start with letters. Real ones. Write one each week — not about logistics, but longing. Cook together, virtually if needed. Watch the moon together, even if from different cities. Don’t aim for passion. Aim for presence.”

Ravi: “And the child?”

Madhukar: “You won’t be raising the child alone. You’ll be raising the child within you first — the parts that were left neglected.”

(Silence. For the first time, they sit a little closer.)

Meena (softly): “I forgot how much I liked the sound of his thinking voice.”

Madhukar (smiling): “You’ve just begun to listen again.”

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“We didn’t change overnight. Some weeks were just routines stitched end to end — duty, calls, dinner, sleep. But slowly, the coldness began to thaw. We wrote real letters — not emails. We met without agendas. Fought without walking away. We created a shared rhythm across cities: planting the same tulsi on our windowsills, cooking the same Sunday recipe, calling not to report, but to simply listen. We stopped trying to control what love should look like and started noticing how it was quietly returning — in the pauses, the care, the remembering. We visited home together twice. Spoke to our parents without deflecting. And for the first time in years, we spoke about children without fear — not as a project, but as a possibility. Today, we sat again with Madhukar under the same tree. We weren’t the same people. The silence between us now held warmth, not resentment. And even though the world around us hadn’t changed much, we had learned to stay — with ourselves, and with each other. That, we realized, was the true beginning.”

Part Two: The Second Visit — One Year Later

Setting: Early summer again. The neem tree now has a swing made of coir rope. The courtyard is greener. A large brass pot is cooling water in the shade. Meena and Ravi arrive smiling, hand in hand. She carries a small tiffin box. He carries a canvas bag with books.

Madhukar (grinning): “You’ve changed. You’re walking in, not arriving.”

Ravi: “It’s been a year. We didn’t change jobs. But we changed how we used our time.”

Meena: “We wrote letters. Every week. It felt silly at first. Then it became sacred. Sometimes, he wrote poems. I replied with old songs.”

Ravi: “We did video cooking dates. I burnt rotis. She laughed. I forgot how much her laughter could heal.”

Madhukar: “Did the silence return?”

Meena: “Yes. But this time, it was full silence. Comfortable. Like sitting next to a tree.”

Ravi: “We travelled together — not to a resort, but to each other’s wounds.”

Madhukar: “And the child?”

(They glance at each other.)

Meena (calmly): “Still not here. But we’re not afraid anymore. We even filled an adoption inquiry. We just don’t want fear to be our family’s foundation.”

Ravi: “Even if it’s just us, we’re enough. We’re no longer ‘on hold’.”

Madhukar: “You’ve built a home. The walls may be in two cities. But the hearth — it’s lit now.”

(They sit for a long time, sipping lemon water. The neem tree sways gently. Time feels unhurried.)

Madhukar (looking out at the horizon): “Love isn’t always about being under one roof. Sometimes, it’s about breathing in the same rhythm, even from miles away.”

(They nod. Meena opens the tiffin — lemon rice and pickle. Ravi pulls out a book of poems they created together. It’s titled: ‘Letters Between Routines’)

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