The Metamorphosis of Vishala

Vishala sat in the outdoor seating of Felix’s Garden Café, her favorite place, watching crowds pass in excited waves. Citizens moved through the streets determined to carve out new lives for themselves. It was the first day of the new year, when determination felt most potent. Her coffee was strong and delicious. As always, Felix’s pastries were flaky and warm, just as they had been when her grandmother brought her here as a child.

Vishala adored the memory of clutching her grandmother’s soft, knowing hand as they strolled the pathway, stopping to greet every bird and squirrel. Everything she loved about this little corner of the world was there. Sometimes she wondered if it only existed when she was there to bear witness. The city was loud and sometimes bothersome, yet it carried a sense of hope for a prosperous future. She took a deep breath and opened her journal.

Vishala here on day one of my new life. I met with my assigned mentor from The Arboreus Directive today. In a world of excess, my goal is to simplify: reduce stress and anxiety, release material goods that harm the earth through mass production, and remove expectations of myself. I will release what does not belong to me. I do not own others’ emotions. Letting them go is step one.

These are the things that make me uncomfortable, and he explained that discomfort is often a sign that something should be removed. Although I am hesitant, this lifestyle change has been a long time coming, and more necessary than I realized until this moment, when pen met paper.

With that, she closed her journal and returned reluctantly to a job she was still somewhat grateful for. “Someone took a long lunch break! Vishala, did you get lost?” her boss mocked.

She paused before responding. “Mr. Garcia, the report will be on your desk by the end of the day.” He raised an eyebrow, looked her up and down, and then walked away. Typically, it was easy to provoke her. Not today.

The workday passed more smoothly than it had in months, and although the weather was damp and frosty, anticipation acted as a proven distraction. Vishala had loved playing the piano since childhood and spent years perfecting her favorite piece, Liebestraum No. 3. Recently signed by a talent manager, this would be her debut performance before a crowd of this size, and the first of many to come.

Her name was called, and the audience was still and ready. The song began gently, growing into a difficult crescendo which she played with such ease that it seemed effortless. She closed her eyes and escaped for a moment before applause pulled her back to Earth.

On her walk home, she thought of the seemingly insurmountable task of dinner. What lay before her was raw meat and unprepared vegetables. After a long day of work, meeting her mentor, and the recital, she thought: “Well. Delivery will be easier.”

A few hours of social media replaced her bedtime routine. The untidy home and forgotten bills waited. “Later. Tomorrow. I need to rest.” There was little desire to fight it. This would be part of today’s lesson.

Vishala finally closed her eyes, but she tossed and turned for hours. Pulling one arm and leg out from under the comforter, only to replace it again moments later. Her eyes would open and dart back and forth from her alarm clock to her work clothes, which she had set out for the next day. Ultimately, her mind and body succumbed to the night.

Spring arrived, brightening the city, bringing with it singing birds, laughing children, and an influx of tourists. A welcome sight and sound for families and local businesses. For Vishala, the outside had become overwhelming, and the choice to sit inside the cafe felt increasingly like the right one. After all, there were new rules to follow. Settling into her seat, she opened her journal.

My mentor missed our meeting today, though we spoke briefly on the phone. He said that to continue my path to simplification, I would need to cut out unnecessary influences: obligations, expectations, voices that add nothing meaningful to my life.

I agreed. I want more time for introspection, for small joys, and less time spent on man-made pressures, fabricated urgencies, and deadlines.

He said our next meeting should be text-only. Too much guidance, he explained, can become another form of surplus, and true peace requires learning to sit alone. That was very practical of him. Even he is trying to become less of a burden to me.

Vishala placed her daybook in her satchel and walked back to the office, where she playfully bantered with her co-worker before realizing she was expending too much of herself.

Despite her efforts, each day’s irritations became more glaring. She began letting go of deadlines she knew were not critical and spending less time in the fluorescent-lit, draining environment.

At home, even seeing her friends began to feel like a chore. Still, she found herself missing them sometimes, wondering whether the effort to see them might be worth it after all. She remembered her mentor’s words: “Loneliness and isolation are often confused. A caterpillar isolates itself before emerging in its final, most beautiful form.”

Cleaning had become too difficult to contend with, too. Her kitchen was stacked with unwashed dishes, and trash littered throughout the home. She barely noticed the smell in the refrigerator, as she scarcely cooked anymore. Once again, there were no ingredients prepared for dinner, the new normal, and takeout had become too expensive. She made a humble sandwich to quiet her hunger. Vishala slowly spread peanut butter across each slice of bread.

Her thoughts drifted to a vacation with friends at a spring, floating through crystal-clear water, soaking in warm sun, laughing when they realized a small alligator had been watching them long before they noticed it. The snacks were fresh and tasty. They brought a do-it-yourself charcuterie board, spicy meat and cheeses of all kinds, crisp green grapes, and Samantha’s homemade kombucha. The gossip was playful with the entire friend group present and involved.

Vishala smiled for a brief moment before the recollections of that day brought her to the moment where her car broke down on the way home. She had to spend her last dollars on a repair she hadn’t planned for. “Why does the cost of socializing always seem greater than the reward?” the question arose.

Finishing the last bite of her sandwich, she sat down at the piano. Though her playing remained beautiful, she no longer desired complexity. She enjoyed simple pieces from her youth, “Mary Had A Little Lamb”, and “Hot Cross Buns”, which caused her to break out into a soft laugh, and filled her with nostalgia and warmth.

She opened the mail she had been avoiding. She was too far behind on the mortgage. With no vacation days left at work, all the time she was missing came directly out of her paycheck. The knot in her stomach gave her pause, and she put away the notices.

“Perhaps you should downsize. Then you won’t have to work as much. Besides, you don’t need all of this furniture, all of these things. Detachment is superior, Vishala,” She reminded herself.

The Summer heat began beating her down more than it had in years past. Getting coffee to go was far easier and more comfortable. No one to make small talk with, no heat to bear, or traffic to fight. People in the city were just as miserable and quick-tempered. Community pools were packed with children shoulder to shoulder, mothers fussing over their families.

Tired soul here. Leaving my home feels so difficult now. No one seems to understand how I feel, except my mentor.

A short note to herself this time before rummaging through the pantry for dinner. “I have chips. Better than nothing.” Taking a bite, she lowered her chin and relaxed her shoulders.

At work, the decision to fire her was orchestrated more like an intervention. Mr. Garcia, who was generally more brutal, tempered himself. “Ms. Narayan…Vishala, John from Employee Wellness, is here to offer you some resources. I truly hope you will make use of them.

“Is there someone we can call for her?” he inquired.

“She has an emergency number listed in her personnel record. We’ve tried reaching out many times, but no one returns our calls.” John replied.

Mr. Garcia slumped forward in his chair and clenched his jaw. He and John shared a look, briefly, before he gave him the nod to return to work.

On her walk home, she checked her voicemails, something she rarely did anymore. “Hi, it’s Sam. I know you hate phone calls, but we’re all getting worried. Please just text me back, okay?” A pause. “Oh, and Sly’s in love again. We’re taking bets on how long this one lasts. I’d say two weeks, but you always win these.” Samantha gave a small, uncertain laugh. “Anyway… just call me.” Normally, a voicemail like this would have compelled her to reach back out. This time, she deleted it with a half-smile.

She sat down at the piano, a pastime and potential future that had always given her solace and renewal of spirit. Fingers clanked on untuned keys, frustration grew, and blood pressure rose.

“Excuse me, Miss?” A mover asked. “I have to take this now.” She stood up and watched the men remove it with more numbness than sadness.

Her calendar, normally full, now bore only one event. A few months away, there would be time to gather the mental strength she would need. “I will have to ask first”, she thought.

As she began texting her mentor, she realized she no longer had phone service. She didn’t worry; he had a way of communicating when necessary. A brief pang of loneliness presented itself, and she wondered if she was doing the right thing. His words began marching through her mind, and she couldn’t help but believe he would be happy if he saw her “vacate the premises” notice. Just a few more days, and she will have nothing left to manage.

Summer and fall had come and gone, giving way to winter. Although distant, the sounds of a joyous season, loud and festive, weaved in and out of the city blocks. The inhabitants and visitors reflected on the previous months. Some had grown in their careers that year, some had expanded their families, some had not.

Her friends sat in the center row, waiting and hoping. “Please welcome our next pianist, an up-and-coming artist we are all anticipating will have a long and successful career, Vishala Narayan!” They looked around, eyes wide, searching, instead of their friend, they were met with silence and a realized fear.

She stood alone in a back alley, far from the recital hall. The fire in an old rusty barrel could not compete with that bitterly cold night. Memories of family and friends, hot meals, and laughter flashed in her mind’s eye. She could no longer feel them, and they seemed more like a disconnected show than like experiences that had once been real.

A former colleague passed by the alley, and he called out to her, “Vishala?” But she no longer recognized that name. The sight of this person he had once known was more than he could bear, and he hurried away.

There would be no dinner tonight. Her stomach rumbled, and she accepted it as proof the program was working.

With no regard to which page she last wrote, or even the orientation of the book, she scratched her barely cohesive thoughts into the journal.

Mentor said I am finished.

She dropped her journal into the fire without a word. Vishala stared blankly at the flames with eyes whose light had fallen asleep. She stood with arms crossed, watching until there was nothing left. The Arboreus Directive had completed its mission. The metamorphosis of Vishala Narayan was complete.