Unable to Get Pregnant : A Healing Dialogue

Characters:

• Madhukar – The Healer. Wise, grounded, gentle but firm.

• Vikram (32) – Software engineer, witty, sarcastic, prone to procrastination and sugar cravings.

• Meghna (30) – UI/UX designer, anxious, expressive, obsessed with reels and food delivery.

• Setting – A quiet, earthy hermitage on the outskirts of Bengaluru, where Madhukar lives with his family and goats. Afternoon sun dapples through neem trees. Birds chirp. A squirrel munches something in the background. A sleepy dog lies under the bench.

The Arrival

Meghna: (sipping bottled iced tea, scrolling Instagram)

This place has zero signal.

I feel like I’ve landed in prehistoric times.

Vikram: (munching chips)

I told you we should’ve gone to that Ayurveda spa.

At least they have Wi-Fi.

Why are we even here?

Madhukar: (smiling, weaving a grass mat)

You are here because you want to become parents.

Meghna: (raising an eyebrow)

Everyone wants to become parents.

Doesn't mean they live without Zomato.

Vikram: 

And just FYI, we’ve tried everything.

Hospital visits, apps, diets, doctor uncle in US.

Nothing worked.

Madhukar: 

Hmm.

And what have you un-tried?

Vikram: (confused)

What?

Madhukar: 

You’ve tried things.

But what have you stopped?

Meghna: 

Okay, therapist-level riddle time.

Cute.

But I still want my iced tea.

Resistance and Retorts

Madhukar: 

Tell me about your day.

From waking up to sleep.

Meghna: 

Wake up.

Scroll.

Argue about breakfast.

Skip breakfast.

Rush to office.

Zoom calls.

Coffee.

Scroll.

Junk lunch.

Meetings.

Netflix.

Scroll.

Sleep.

Cry sometimes.

Repeat.

Vikram: 

Mine is more fun.

I eat a second dinner at 1 a.m.

Madhukar: 

And how do your bodies feel?

Meghna: 

Like overused rental bikes.

Vikram: 

I can barely bend to wear socks.

But Google says infertility is sometimes just “bad luck.”

Madhukar: 

Do you think life is luck or consequence?

Vikram: 

It’s a startup pitch gone wrong, mostly.

Madhukar: 

You both are like seeds left in a fridge.

They haven’t died.

But they cannot sprout until they are placed in soil, sun, water, silence.

Meghna: 

OMG, that’s very Instagrammable.

Can I tweet that?

Madhukar: 

You may live it instead.

The Child Within

Madhukar: 

You both argue a lot, no?

Meghna: 

It's called “banter.”

Keeps the spark alive.

Vikram: 

It's love language, bro.

Sarcasm with a side of passive aggression.

Madhukar: 

And do you listen to each other?

Meghna: (laughs)

We send memes instead.

Madhukar: 

So the body does not feel heard.

How will it feel safe enough to grow a new life inside?

Vikram: (quiet for a second)

That felt...deep.

Meghna: 

Don’t go philosopher on me now.

Madhukar: 

You both are like two children fighting for attention from devices, and the womb is silently waiting for silence.

Diagnosis by Simplicity

Madhukar: 

Your tests are normal.

But your nervous systems are fried.

Bodies addicted to blue light.

Meals arriving without effort.

Emotions outsourced to algorithms.

Meghna: 

But we walk 2,000 steps every day!

Madhukar: 

To the fridge?

Vikram: 

Fair point.

Madhukar: 

No illness exists in isolation.

Your lifestyle is the soil.

Your thoughts are the rain.

Your breath is the sunlight.

No seed grows in concrete.

Meghna: 

But we don’t live in a village.

Madhukar: 

You don’t need a village.

You need to stop becoming machines.

Take your bodies off the app store.

Prescription for the Soul

Madhukar (gently): 

Your healing begins when you delete what’s unnecessary.

1. Ahar (Food):

   • No food without gratitude.

   • Cook once a day together.

   • No screens while eating.

   • Grow something in your balcony.

2. Vihar (Daily routine):

   • Wake up with the sun.

   • One hour with no devices in the morning.

   • Walk barefoot on mud.

   • Read aloud to each other.

3. Yoga & Breath:

   • Start with 5-minute breath watching.

   • Do Surya Namaskar together.

   • Play like children. Not compete like tired adults.

4. Aushad (Healing herbs):

   • Warm castor oil massage.

   • Tulsi-Ginger tea daily.

   • Satavari and Ashwagandha under guidance.

5. Connection:

   • Speak to each other every night. No gadgets.

   • Ask: “How did your heart feel today?” Not just “What did you do?”

The Turning Point

Vikram: 

And if it doesn’t work?

Madhukar: 

You’ll still become parents — to your own forgotten inner child.

Meghna: 

What if we fail again?

Madhukar: 

Then you’ll know it wasn’t failure.

It was real life without shortcuts.

Vikram: 

This is going to be hard, isn’t it?

Madhukar: 

Beautiful things take time.

So does soil.

So does a child.

And so does love — true, awake love.

9 Months Later

They return.

Lighter.

Healthier.

Smiling.

• They haven’t conceived yet — but they’ve started to sleep better.

• Meghna started sketching again.

• Vikram makes rotis and plays flute (badly, but proudly).

• They laugh more. And cry less on screens.

The womb, they realize, is not just a place in the body.

It’s a place in time.

And time has begun to heal.

Follow-up Dialogue: Nine Months Later

Same Hermitage, Slightly Greener

Madhukar: (smiling as he sips tulsi tea)

You look... softer.

Like people who’ve slept deeply and dreamt gently.

Meghna: (grinning)

We sleep at 10 now.

Can you believe it?

Vikram: 

I made it till Level 2 of Surya Namaskar.

Almost broke my spine... but I survived.

Meghna: 

He also stopped doomscrolling.

Replaced it with doom-lullabies.

Vikram: (mock hurt)

I was singing Bhajans!

Madhukar: (laughs)

Bhajans, lullabies, it’s the silence between them that matters.

Meghna: 

We haven’t conceived yet... but something inside has changed.

I don’t feel broken anymore.

Madhukar: 

A seed takes time.

But now you’ve prepared the soil.

It will know when to sprout.

Vikram: 

And if it doesn’t?

Madhukar: 

Then it wasn’t about the baby.

It was about both of you being reborn.

Meghna: 

I started painting again.

Small things — our balcony plants, my feet, his weird flute.

Vikram: 

It’s not weird!

It’s experimental.

Madhukar: 

That’s life.

One big experiment in slowing down.

Meghna: 

Thank you, Madhukar.

For listening to our chaos without laughing.

Madhukar: 

I did laugh... inside.

But only because chaos is the best fertilizer.

Vikram: (softly)

And for the first time... we feel alive.

Three Months After Their Follow-Up Visit

The Quiet Collapse

Setting: 

Their Bengaluru apartment.

A rainy evening.

The walls are quiet, but their minds aren’t.

Meghna lies curled on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

The delivery app is open again.

Vikram sits on the floor, rubbing his temples, muttering, - Just one cheat day.

One.

Meghna: 

What if we’re just... incompatible with peace?

Vikram: 

We met on Tinder, Megh.

Maybe Madhukar’s expecting Buddha and Buddhaani from two software engineers?

Meghna: 

Let’s go back to him.

Even if it’s just for his puppy’s wisdom.

They both laugh.

The rain taps gently against the window.

The Broken Cup

Setting: 

Madhukar’s hermitage.

Same as before.

But the tree has new leaves.

Madhukar greets them with silence, handing them two earthen cups of tulsi water.

Vikram: 

We fell off.

Doomscrolling.

Junk food.

Late nights.

Fighting over socks.

Meghna: 

I looked up IVF again.

Just to check. Again.

Madhukar places an old cracked teacup before them.

Madhukar: 

I once served tea in this.

It cracked.

I didn’t throw it.

Vikram: 

Why?

Madhukar: 

Because it still held warmth.

That’s what matters.

They sit in silence.

Madhukar: 

The mind will fall again.

It’s a playful monkey.

You just have to greet it with folded hands and tell it: 'You’ve been seen.'

The No-Schedule Week

Madhukar prescribes them:

• No apps

• No ‘trying’ to conceive

• No goals

• No guilt

• No expectations

• Only three things: Walk. Cook. Rest.

Meghna: 

That sounds illegal.

Vikram: 

What if my boss asks what I’m doing?

Madhukar: 

Tell him you’re finally being human.

Tree of Becoming

On the 5th evening, Meghna sketches a banyan tree in silence.

Vikram: 

That’s... beautiful.

Meghna: 

It has roots, even if no fruit yet.

He puts his head on her lap.

No words.

Later that night, they sip warm ragi porridge in candlelight.

Meghna: 

I don’t mind anymore.

Vikram: 

Me neither.

I feel... alive.

Conception of Something Deeper

A month passes.

No pregnancy.

No tears.

They visit Madhukar again, not with desperation — but gratitude.

Meghna: 

Still nothing.

Madhukar: 

Then keep walking gently.

Not all wombs birth children.

Some birth poetry.

Some peace.

He looks at Vikram.

Madhukar: 

Some wombs exist in the heart. Not the body.

And the Moon Came Softly

Two years later

Their home now feels different.

Fewer objects.

More light.

A tulsi plant at the window.

Laughter has returned, not in fits — but as a gentle companion to their silence.

A Letter to Madhukar

It’s early morning.

Meghna is writing in a simple, handmade notebook.

Dear Madhukar,

I had a dream last night.

A baby bird was sitting in my palm.

Not crying.

Just blinking.

I woke up and smiled.

We took a test.

Two pink lines.

Vikram wept quietly in the bathroom.

Then made ragi dosa and burned it.

Thank you for never promising anything.

It was the silence, the stillness… the softest steps…

We didn’t try.

We became.

And she came.

With love,

Meghna.

Visit to the Hermitage

They return to the hermitage, two and a half years after their first visit.

Meghna’s belly is round now.

Her walk is slow, reverent.

Vikram holds her hand, protectively.

Madhukar is sitting under the neem tree, puppy at his feet, now old and wiser too.

He looks up, eyes twinkling.

Madhukar: 

I see you’ve been fruitful.

Vikram: 

We still burn the dosa.

Meghna: 

But we don’t burn ourselves anymore.

They all laugh.

Madhukar: 

Now teach the child only one thing…

They lean in.

Madhukar (softly): 

To live slowly.

To wonder.

To listen.

The rest will happen.