The Girl Who Lived Twice

Ruhi Mehra was under the covers by 10:45 pm, as she was every night. She lived away from her parents, who resided in one of the many bustling lanes of New Delhi. She was far away from the love, the tiny cherished moments, and the chaos. Her pigeon-sized apartment in Sydney was very quiet in a way that it almost felt permanent. The fridge hummed. Cars drove by somewhere below. The digital clock glowed blue against the wall. Ruhi’s laptop bag rested on the single-armed green couch, already prepared for the following morning.

Ruhi was thirty years old. She worked a nine-to-five job in a beige cubicle with light grey partitions that rose high enough to block out life. Week after week, month after month, Monday to Friday, for more than two years, she had typed emails, attended meetings … nodded at things she really didn’t care about. Ruhi ate the same sandwich for lunch at her desk every single day.

Ruhi had only one friend. Chloe, an office friend who worked in the same department but whose desk was on the other side of the hall. Chloe was the kind of friend you’d laugh with near the printer but hardly meet or speak with after work.

On weekends, Ruhi hardly stepped out. She preferred staying home.

She didn’t go to cafes.

She didn't explore the city.

She didn’t meet new people.

She stayed home, read, cooked, cleaned, and watched the sunset from her window.

But there was always something different about Ruhi. She had lived somewhere else, where no one would have thought of.

Ever since she was a little girl, she had possessed a second life … one powered entirely by imagination.

Each day of her childhood, her mother would ask her the same question. “What are you going to be today?”

Little Ruhi would reply with shining eyes and a wide smile,

“A singer.”

“A ballet dancer.”

“An astronaut going to the moon.”

“A world-renowned author.”

“A famous artist whose paintings are sold out.”

Ruhi never picked one dream or thought; instead, she collected them.

Even now, even though Ruhi is thirty, during their daily video call, her mother would pull her leg and ask her the same question from time to time.

“Is your imagination taking over your entire being?”

Ruhi would brush off her reply with a sarcastic laugh. But when the call ended. The silence returned.  

Ruhi and her family were thrilled when she moved to Australia. New job opportunities. A new country. A new life. A fresh start. Independence. Freedom.

Little did poor Ruhi know that homesickness would arrive quietly and settle like dust.

It had been more than two years this way. Work … home … imagination … sleep.

That night, Ruhi tucked into her neat, clean bed. She allowed herself her favourite ritual.

She closed her eyes and imagined herself riding a Harley Davidson down an endless coast. The wind in her hair, the warm sun on her face. She smiled to herself and slowly drifted into a deep sleep.

The following morning unfolded exactly like every other morning. Alarm … shower … coffee …. breakfast … bus … work … desk … endless emails.

As someone discussed the targets for that week in the meeting room, Ruhi was there, but her mind was not. She imagined herself on a stage under bright lights, strumming a guitar while the crowd went wild. She didn’t realise she was smiling to herself. Her boss raised an eyebrow but carried on.

During lunch, while Ruhi ate her regular sandwich, she imagined herself as a secret spy agent destined to save the world.

By bedtime, she was a reporter on location in a war zone.   

Her imagination pulled her through the day like an invisible thread.

By Friday, she felt worn and thin, like paper that has been folded again and again. 

That evening, Ruhi slipped into her pajamas and stood in her small kitchen. She opened a can of baked beans. The metal snapped back with a dull pop. She poured the beans into a pan and placed it on the stove to simmer. She leaned against the counter, watching the red sauce barely bubble. She turned off the stove. The beans weren’t even warm. Something inside her made her sag. Ruhi was tired. Tired of repetition.

Just then, her phone rang. It was her office friend, Chloe.

Ruhi stared at the flashing screen. She hesitated before answering.

“Please tell me you’re not in your pajamas,” Chloe chirped without greeting.

“I am. Why?” Ruhi sounded dull.

“Well, it’s my birthday. I had to visit my mother, that’s why I couldn’t come to work today. Come, let’s go somewhere. I refuse to celebrate alone. Meet me in town.”

Ruhi looked at the sad-looking beans in the pan. She let out a long sigh.

“Come! Please! Let’s have one drink. That’s all,” Chloe urged.

Ruhi almost said no, and she thought ... to hell with it. “One drink! I’ll see you in half an hour.”

A weird kind of excitement rushed through Ruhi's mind as she picked out her jeans and a black tee from her wardrobe. She slipped on her shoes, picked up her purse, and rushed out the front door.

As she stepped out, the air felt different. It was cooler. The city was alive. She hadn’t noticed that earlier since she had always cooped herself up in her tiny apartment.

The two friends wandered aimlessly. Chloe suggested Thai. Then pizza. Then ice cream first. The duo laughed and giggled about nothing in particular. As they walked down the busy streets, they passed a bar glowing with neon lights. The sign outside read: "Live Karaoke Night."

Ruhi and Chloe exchanged looks and peeked through the window. They could see a small wooden stage. A man singing off- key while the audience groaned dramatically.

Chloe grinned. “This looks terrible. Let’s go in.”

Inside, the lights were dimmed, the floor was sticky, and the place smelled of beer and whiskey. And the singing … even worse.

They ordered two pints of beer and found a seat near the bar.

Ruhi was feeling out of place, as if she had stepped into someone else’s shoes.

“You okay? What are you thinking about?” Chloe nudged.

“I’m always thinking about something or the other,” Ruhi replied, chugging her beer.

“About?”

Ruhi smiled sheepishly. “Nothing. It’s stupid. Really.”

“Tell me! It’s my birthday.”

“Well, sometimes I feel like I live in two worlds. This one. And another in my head. In that one, I’m much more fun, more brave, more happy, and more wild.”

Chloe tilted her head. “And what world are you in right now?”

Ruhi stared at the wooden stage where another unfortunate singer was being booed.

“A singer,” she said softly.

“Then sing,” Chloe laughed.

“Certainly not. Have you lost your mind?”

“Oh, come on. I dare you.”

“No. Let’s just sit here and watch the fun,” Ruhi replied.

Chloe didn’t say anything. She stayed a few seconds longer, then excused herself to go to the washroom. Ruhi stayed put, her eyes glued to the stage, lost in her own little world of imagination.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said on stage. “And up next we have Ruhi.”

Ruhi’s heart stopped.

Chloe returned to the table, trying to look innocent.

“You did not!” Ruhi snapped.

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

The bar seemed to spin slightly as Ruhi walked toward the stage.

Her palms were sweaty. Her heart was pounding. She could feel all eyes on her. The microphone squealed when she touched it. Someone at the back shouted something she couldn’t hear.

For a second, she considered running. She wished she could vanish into outer space.

Ruhi shut her eyes for a few seconds. And in the darkness behind her eyelids, she found the version of herself who had always existed … the singer.

She began softly. Her voice trembled at first. But as the melody continued, something settled inside her. The noise of the room faded. The fear loosened its grip.

She wasn’t flawless.

She was free.

When Ruhi opened her eyes, the audience wasn’t booing.

They were clapping. Some were even cheering.

Chloe whooped loudly from the bar.

Ruhi stepped off the stage with a breathless laugh she didn’t recognize as her own.

For the first time, her imagination had come to life.

The next morning, the sunlight filtered through the curtains. Ruhi woke up wearing the same clothes. Her head was slightly heavy from the beer. Her mind travelled back to the previous night, like waves bringing the memories back to life. She got along with her usual morning routine. Her chest felt light. Fulfilled. She couldn’t believe she actually sang in front of a crowd on stage.

That evening, Ruhi stepped out of her apartment again. She walked through neighborhoods she had only ever seen from a bus window. She sat at a café and ordered coffee without rehearsing the sentence in her head.

The following week, she signed up for a beginner baking class.

A month later, she enrolled in motorcycle lessons.

On Sundays, during her video call, her mother asked, “What did you imagine yourself as today?”

And this time, Ruhi smiled differently.

“Today,” she said, “I am me.”

Her life didn’t explode into glitter and applause … it simply moved forward.

Ruhi still worked in her cubicle. Still ate the same sandwich. Still paid bills.

But something had shifted.

She no longer lived only in imagination. She visited it. And then she carried pieces of it back with her.

Ruhi had once believed her imagination existed to help her survive her days.

Now she understood something else.

It had been waiting for her to begin.