14-07-2026, 02:03 PM
3 . The Loss
"The years that followed were kind to all of us. Work kept everyone occupied, children filled our homes with laughter, and every festival gave us another reason to gather. Looking back, it almost feels as though life was trying to give us as many happy memories as possible before everything changed.
The first sign that something was wrong seemed insignificant at the time.
During one of our family gatherings, everyone had gathered around the dining area while Pooja and her mother served dinner.
Her husband picked at his food for a few moments before quietly putting his plate aside.
Pooja noticed first.
""You're done already?"" she asked.
He smiled.
""Not very hungry today.""
His mother-in-law frowned.
""You've barely eaten.""
He laughed softly.
""Too much tea at work. My stomach's acting up.""
Abhi looked over from the other side of the table.
""Again? You said the same thing last month.""
""It's just acidity.""
""You should get it checked.""
He waved his hand dismissively.
""I'll survive.""
Someone immediately changed the subject.
Within minutes everyone was laughing again.
I forget about that conversation before the night was over.
Years later, I would remember every single word."
"It is strange how the biggest tragedies often begin with things that seem completely ordinary.
For our family, it wasn't an accident or a sudden illness. It began quietly, almost unnoticed, with something most people dismissed as harmless.
After the COVID years, work became more demanding for almost everyone. Longer hours, tighter deadlines, and constant pressure became the new normal.
Like many people around him, he started having an occasional drink with colleagues after work.
At first, nobody thought much of it.
One evening, while serving tea, Pooja laughed.
""They've started making him attend every office party.""
He smiled.
""Occupational hazard.""
""So now you drink?""
""Only when they force me.""
Abhi grinned.
""So... every Friday?""
""Sometimes.""
""Every weekend?""
He laughed.
""Don't interrogate me.""
Everyone laughed with him.
Looking back now...
I wish one of us hadn't.
Months quietly became years.
One drink became two.
Weekends became weekdays."
"Whenever someone asked him to slow down, the answer was always the same.
""I know my limits.""
""I can quit anytime.""
""It's just work pressure.""
We believed him.
Mostly because we wanted to.
By the time anyone realized how serious it had become, the damage had already been done.Almost two years passed before reality finally caught up with him.
My phone rang just after eight that evening.
Abhi.
I answered immediately.
""Hello?""
There was only silence.
""Abhi?""
His voice finally came through.
""...Where are you?""
""At home.""
""Can you come to City Hospital?""
I sat upright.
""What happened?""
""It's jija.""
My heart sank.
""Accident?""
""No.""
""What is it then?""
Another pause.
""The doctors say... it's his liver.""
I didn't know what to say.
"
"""Is it serious?""
I heard him take a shaky breath.
""I don't know anymore.""
The call ended, but I remained frozen for a few seconds, staring at the dark screen in my hand.
My wife looked up from the dining table the moment she saw my face.
""What happened?""
""It's Pooja's husband.""
She immediately stood.
""Is he okay?""
""I don't think so.""
""Which hospital?""
""City Hospital.""
Without another word, she walked into our room and returned with my bike keys.
""Go.""
""What about dinner?""
""I'll manage.""
I hesitated for a moment.
She gently placed her hand on my shoulder.
""They need you more than we do tonight.""
I nodded silently, picked up my helmet, and stepped out into the night.
The ride to the hospital felt longer than it had ever felt before."
"When I reached the hospital, the corridors were crowded with worried relatives and exhausted nurses.
Abhi spotted me from the end of the hallway and walked over without saying a word.
His eyes were swollen.
He simply gestured toward the ICU.
A few moments later, a doctor stepped out.
He removed his spectacles before speaking.
""Who is the patient's immediate family?""
Pooja immediately stood.
""I'm his wife.""
Her father stood beside her.
The doctor looked at both of them.
""We've done everything medically possible.""
Nobody spoke.
""He has advanced liver failure.""
Pooja blinked.
""I don't understand.""
""The damage has been developing for years.""
She slowly shook her head.
""But he'll recover... won't he?""
The doctor didn't answer immediately.
That silence said more than any words ever could.
Nobody cried.
Not yet.
Sometimes hope refuses to disappear, even after the truth has already arrived."
"The family slowly dispersed through different corners of the hospital corridor.
Some went to complete paperwork.
Others made phone calls to relatives.
I wandered outside, searching for fresh air.
That's when I found Abhi sitting alone on the staircase.
He didn't even look up when I sat beside him.
For several minutes...
neither of us spoke.
Finally he asked,
""Do you remember our last Diwali?""
""Hmm.""
""He was the loudest one in the house.""
I smiled faintly.
""He always cheated during cards.""
Abhi managed the smallest laugh.
Then it disappeared.
""I keep thinking...""
""What?""
""Maybe he'll come home.""
""He will.""
Abhi kept staring at the floor.
""I wish I believed that.""
Neither of us said another word.
There was nothing left to say."
"When I returned upstairs, most of the family had gathered outside the ICU.
Pooja, however, sat alone near the window, staring at the floor.
She hadn't moved for hours.
I walked over quietly.
""You should eat something.""
She shook her head.
""I'm not hungry.""
""That isn't an answer.""
She finally looked at me.
""I'll eat later.""
""No.""
She frowned weakly.
""What?""
""You're pretending again.""
She looked confused.
""Pretending?""
""You always say you're fine when you're not.""
For the first time since I had arrived...
the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.
""You're starting to sound like Anna.""
""Someone has to.""
For a brief moment...
she smiled.
Then the smile disappeared as she looked back toward the ICU doors"
"Late the following afternoon, visiting hours were almost over.
The nurses stepped outside for a few minutes, leaving the room unusually quiet.
Those of us waiting in the corridor instinctively gave Pooja a little privacy.
She quietly pulled her chair closer to the bed.
He slowly opened his eyes.
""They're making everyone worry.""
She forced a smile.
""They're making you rest.""
He glanced at the tubes running into his arm.
""When I get out of here...""
She gently squeezed his hand.
""...don't.""
He looked at her.
""I know.""
""I don't care about promises.""
Tears filled her eyes.
""I don't care if you never touch another drink.""
Her voice trembled.
""Just come home.""
He nodded weakly.
""I will.""
She believed him.
So did he.
Standing outside the half-closed door, none of us knew we were witnessing the last private conversation they would ever share."
"The hospital corridors seemed to exist in a world where time moved differently. The bright white lights never dimmed, the distant beeping of monitors never stopped, and every passing minute felt longer than the last.
After speaking with the doctor, none of us were ready to leave. We convinced ourselves that staying close somehow meant we still had control over what was happening. Plastic chairs became our beds, paper cups of tea grew cold in our hands, and conversations slowly gave way to long stretches of silence.
That night, very few of us slept.
The following morning, I stepped outside the hospital and returned carrying a tray of tea and a few packets of biscuits from the small canteen across the road. As I walked back, I realized everyone was sitting exactly where I had left them.
""At least have some tea,"" I said quietly.
Nobody reached for a cup.
Abhi stared blankly at the floor.
His father simply shook his head.
Pooja hadn't moved from outside the ICU since the previous evening.
Her mother gently rested a hand on her shoulder.
""Pooja...""
She looked up slowly.
""Go wash your face, beta. You've been sitting here all night.""
""I'm fine, Aai.""
""No,"" her mother replied softly. ""You're exhausted.""
Before she could refuse again, Abhi stood up.
""Go,"" he said. ""I'll stay here."""
She hesitated.
"What if..."
"I'll call you the moment anything changes."
For a few seconds she remained seated before finally nodding and walking slowly toward the washroom.
Watching her leave, none of us realized it would be one of the last moments she would walk away believing her husband was still coming home.
Around noon, the doctors finally gave us something we hadn't heard since arriving at the hospital.
"His condition has stabilized for now."
Those few words instantly changed the atmosphere.
For the first time in two days, people breathed a little easier.
Abhi managed a faint smile.
His father closed his eyes and quietly thanked God.
Even I found myself believing that perhaps the worst had passed.
Pooja finally agreed to eat a few bites after repeated persuasion from her mother. As she finished, she took out her phone and called home.
"The doctors say he's a little better," she said, forcing hope into her voice. "Don't worry... we'll probably be home soon."
Hearing those words brought relief to everyone listening.
For a little while, hope returned to our family.
But hope can be painfully fragile.
Late the following night, just as exhaustion had begun to overpower anxiety, a sharp series of alarms shattered the silence inside the ICU.
The steady beeping suddenly became frantic.
Nurses rushed through the doors.
Within seconds, doctors followed.
One of them looked toward us.
"Please wait outside."
The ICU doors closed.
Nobody spoke.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
Each passing second felt impossibly heavy.
Every time the doors moved, all of us instinctively stood, only to sit down again when another nurse hurried past without saying a word.
The silence became unbearable.
Finally, the doors opened.
The doctor walked toward us slowly, removing his gloves as he came.
His face told us everything before he said a single word.
He stopped in front of Pooja.
"I'm... sorry."
That was all.
Two simple words.
No medical explanation.
No lengthy speech.
Just two words that shattered an entire family.
For several seconds, Pooja simply stared at him.
She blinked once.
Then again.
As though she hadn't understood what she had just heard.
Finally, almost in a whisper, she said,
"No..."
It wasn't a scream.
It wasn't even loud enough for everyone to hear.
It was a single word spoken by someone whose mind refused to accept what reality had already decided.
Abhi stood frozen.
Then, without warning, he turned and struck the concrete wall with his fist.
Once.
Then again.
"Abhi!" I shouted, grabbing him before he could hit it a third time.
He struggled for a moment before collapsing against me.
"He promised..." he whispered, his voice breaking. "He said he'd come home."
I had no words.
I simply held him while both of us cried.
Somewhere behind us, Pooja had fallen into her mother's arms.
The corridor that had carried so much hope only a few hours earlier now echoed with quiet grief.
There were still practical things that had to be done.
Hospital paperwork had to be completed.
Relatives had to be informed.
The death certificate had to be collected.
An ambulance had to be arranged.
While the family struggled to process their loss, I found myself moving from one counter to another, signing forms, answering questions, making phone calls, and speaking with hospital staff. None of it felt real. It simply felt necessary.
By evening, everything was ready.
The journey back to the village was unlike any journey I had ever taken.
Nobody spoke.
The rhythmic hum of the ambulance engine was the only sound.
Pooja sat beside her husband's body, one hand resting gently on the white sheet that covered him. She never looked away. She didn't cry. She simply sat there, staring silently through the window, as though she were still waiting for him to open his eyes.
Sometimes grief is too deep for tears.
As the ambulance entered the village, we saw people already waiting outside.
Word had travelled faster than we had.
Neighbours stepped aside in silence.
The moment the rear doors opened, the quiet finally broke.
The cries of the women echoed through the street.
His parents collapsed as relatives rushed forward to support them.
Pooja stepped out slowly, moving as though every step required all the strength she had left.
Amid the confusion, one small voice rose above the rest.
His little daughter tugged gently at her grandmother's saree.
"Aaji..."
She looked around at the crowd with innocent confusion.
"Why is everyone crying?"
No one answered.
No one could.
When his body was brought inside the house for the final farewell, relatives slowly gathered around one by one.
Someone gently folded back the white cloth covering his face.
Pooja walked forward on trembling legs and knelt beside him.
With shaking hands, she brushed her fingers across his forehead one last time.
For a long moment, she simply looked at him, hoping against hope that he would wake up.
When the elders finally asked her to step back so the rituals could continue, she didn't move.
Her mother tried to lift her gently.
She still refused.
Only when Abhi wrapped an arm around her shoulders did she finally allow herself to be led away, her eyes never leaving her husband.
Nearby, their daughter slipped away from the adults and walked innocently toward the body.
She reached up with her tiny hand and gently touched his arm.
"Baba..."
She waited.
When there was no answer, she spoke again, a little louder.
"Baba... wake up."
The courtyard fell completely silent.
Not a single person could hold back their tears.
Later that evening, as the funeral procession reached the cremation ground, nobody had the strength to speak anymore.
The final prayers were offered.
The rituals were completed.
As the pyre was lit, I didn't watch the flames.
Instead, I looked at the people standing beside me.
Abhi stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Pooja collapsed into her mother's embrace, unable to remain standing any longer.
The smoke slowly rose into the evening sky, carrying away a life that, only days earlier, had seemed destined to continue for decades.
The days that followed passed in a blur of visitors, prayers, condolences, and rituals.
For thirteen days, the house remained full.
Neighbours came.
Relatives stayed.
Friends offered comfort.
Meals were prepared.
Prayers were recited.
No one was ever alone.
Then, almost as quietly as they had arrived, everyone began returning to their own lives.
Cars drove away.
The courtyard became empty.
The constant voices disappeared.
By the end of the thirteenth day, the house had fallen into a silence none of us had ever known.
It was then that the true weight of the loss finally settled over the family.
The rituals were over.
The visitors slowly returned to their own lives.
The courtyard that had been filled with relatives, prayers, and voices for thirteen days had fallen silent once again.
Life outside the house continued as though nothing had happened.
But inside those walls, time seemed to stop.
Every room carried his absence.
Every object reminded someone of him.
And for the first time since the funeral, Pooja found herself facing a silence that no relative, no ritual, and no prayer could fill.
Looking back now, I often think that his death was not the end of our story.
It was only the beginning of another one.
"The years that followed were kind to all of us. Work kept everyone occupied, children filled our homes with laughter, and every festival gave us another reason to gather. Looking back, it almost feels as though life was trying to give us as many happy memories as possible before everything changed.
The first sign that something was wrong seemed insignificant at the time.
During one of our family gatherings, everyone had gathered around the dining area while Pooja and her mother served dinner.
Her husband picked at his food for a few moments before quietly putting his plate aside.
Pooja noticed first.
""You're done already?"" she asked.
He smiled.
""Not very hungry today.""
His mother-in-law frowned.
""You've barely eaten.""
He laughed softly.
""Too much tea at work. My stomach's acting up.""
Abhi looked over from the other side of the table.
""Again? You said the same thing last month.""
""It's just acidity.""
""You should get it checked.""
He waved his hand dismissively.
""I'll survive.""
Someone immediately changed the subject.
Within minutes everyone was laughing again.
I forget about that conversation before the night was over.
Years later, I would remember every single word."
"It is strange how the biggest tragedies often begin with things that seem completely ordinary.
For our family, it wasn't an accident or a sudden illness. It began quietly, almost unnoticed, with something most people dismissed as harmless.
After the COVID years, work became more demanding for almost everyone. Longer hours, tighter deadlines, and constant pressure became the new normal.
Like many people around him, he started having an occasional drink with colleagues after work.
At first, nobody thought much of it.
One evening, while serving tea, Pooja laughed.
""They've started making him attend every office party.""
He smiled.
""Occupational hazard.""
""So now you drink?""
""Only when they force me.""
Abhi grinned.
""So... every Friday?""
""Sometimes.""
""Every weekend?""
He laughed.
""Don't interrogate me.""
Everyone laughed with him.
Looking back now...
I wish one of us hadn't.
Months quietly became years.
One drink became two.
Weekends became weekdays."
"Whenever someone asked him to slow down, the answer was always the same.
""I know my limits.""
""I can quit anytime.""
""It's just work pressure.""
We believed him.
Mostly because we wanted to.
By the time anyone realized how serious it had become, the damage had already been done.Almost two years passed before reality finally caught up with him.
My phone rang just after eight that evening.
Abhi.
I answered immediately.
""Hello?""
There was only silence.
""Abhi?""
His voice finally came through.
""...Where are you?""
""At home.""
""Can you come to City Hospital?""
I sat upright.
""What happened?""
""It's jija.""
My heart sank.
""Accident?""
""No.""
""What is it then?""
Another pause.
""The doctors say... it's his liver.""
I didn't know what to say.
"
"""Is it serious?""
I heard him take a shaky breath.
""I don't know anymore.""
The call ended, but I remained frozen for a few seconds, staring at the dark screen in my hand.
My wife looked up from the dining table the moment she saw my face.
""What happened?""
""It's Pooja's husband.""
She immediately stood.
""Is he okay?""
""I don't think so.""
""Which hospital?""
""City Hospital.""
Without another word, she walked into our room and returned with my bike keys.
""Go.""
""What about dinner?""
""I'll manage.""
I hesitated for a moment.
She gently placed her hand on my shoulder.
""They need you more than we do tonight.""
I nodded silently, picked up my helmet, and stepped out into the night.
The ride to the hospital felt longer than it had ever felt before."
"When I reached the hospital, the corridors were crowded with worried relatives and exhausted nurses.
Abhi spotted me from the end of the hallway and walked over without saying a word.
His eyes were swollen.
He simply gestured toward the ICU.
A few moments later, a doctor stepped out.
He removed his spectacles before speaking.
""Who is the patient's immediate family?""
Pooja immediately stood.
""I'm his wife.""
Her father stood beside her.
The doctor looked at both of them.
""We've done everything medically possible.""
Nobody spoke.
""He has advanced liver failure.""
Pooja blinked.
""I don't understand.""
""The damage has been developing for years.""
She slowly shook her head.
""But he'll recover... won't he?""
The doctor didn't answer immediately.
That silence said more than any words ever could.
Nobody cried.
Not yet.
Sometimes hope refuses to disappear, even after the truth has already arrived."
"The family slowly dispersed through different corners of the hospital corridor.
Some went to complete paperwork.
Others made phone calls to relatives.
I wandered outside, searching for fresh air.
That's when I found Abhi sitting alone on the staircase.
He didn't even look up when I sat beside him.
For several minutes...
neither of us spoke.
Finally he asked,
""Do you remember our last Diwali?""
""Hmm.""
""He was the loudest one in the house.""
I smiled faintly.
""He always cheated during cards.""
Abhi managed the smallest laugh.
Then it disappeared.
""I keep thinking...""
""What?""
""Maybe he'll come home.""
""He will.""
Abhi kept staring at the floor.
""I wish I believed that.""
Neither of us said another word.
There was nothing left to say."
"When I returned upstairs, most of the family had gathered outside the ICU.
Pooja, however, sat alone near the window, staring at the floor.
She hadn't moved for hours.
I walked over quietly.
""You should eat something.""
She shook her head.
""I'm not hungry.""
""That isn't an answer.""
She finally looked at me.
""I'll eat later.""
""No.""
She frowned weakly.
""What?""
""You're pretending again.""
She looked confused.
""Pretending?""
""You always say you're fine when you're not.""
For the first time since I had arrived...
the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.
""You're starting to sound like Anna.""
""Someone has to.""
For a brief moment...
she smiled.
Then the smile disappeared as she looked back toward the ICU doors"
"Late the following afternoon, visiting hours were almost over.
The nurses stepped outside for a few minutes, leaving the room unusually quiet.
Those of us waiting in the corridor instinctively gave Pooja a little privacy.
She quietly pulled her chair closer to the bed.
He slowly opened his eyes.
""They're making everyone worry.""
She forced a smile.
""They're making you rest.""
He glanced at the tubes running into his arm.
""When I get out of here...""
She gently squeezed his hand.
""...don't.""
He looked at her.
""I know.""
""I don't care about promises.""
Tears filled her eyes.
""I don't care if you never touch another drink.""
Her voice trembled.
""Just come home.""
He nodded weakly.
""I will.""
She believed him.
So did he.
Standing outside the half-closed door, none of us knew we were witnessing the last private conversation they would ever share."
"The hospital corridors seemed to exist in a world where time moved differently. The bright white lights never dimmed, the distant beeping of monitors never stopped, and every passing minute felt longer than the last.
After speaking with the doctor, none of us were ready to leave. We convinced ourselves that staying close somehow meant we still had control over what was happening. Plastic chairs became our beds, paper cups of tea grew cold in our hands, and conversations slowly gave way to long stretches of silence.
That night, very few of us slept.
The following morning, I stepped outside the hospital and returned carrying a tray of tea and a few packets of biscuits from the small canteen across the road. As I walked back, I realized everyone was sitting exactly where I had left them.
""At least have some tea,"" I said quietly.
Nobody reached for a cup.
Abhi stared blankly at the floor.
His father simply shook his head.
Pooja hadn't moved from outside the ICU since the previous evening.
Her mother gently rested a hand on her shoulder.
""Pooja...""
She looked up slowly.
""Go wash your face, beta. You've been sitting here all night.""
""I'm fine, Aai.""
""No,"" her mother replied softly. ""You're exhausted.""
Before she could refuse again, Abhi stood up.
""Go,"" he said. ""I'll stay here."""
She hesitated.
"What if..."
"I'll call you the moment anything changes."
For a few seconds she remained seated before finally nodding and walking slowly toward the washroom.
Watching her leave, none of us realized it would be one of the last moments she would walk away believing her husband was still coming home.
Around noon, the doctors finally gave us something we hadn't heard since arriving at the hospital.
"His condition has stabilized for now."
Those few words instantly changed the atmosphere.
For the first time in two days, people breathed a little easier.
Abhi managed a faint smile.
His father closed his eyes and quietly thanked God.
Even I found myself believing that perhaps the worst had passed.
Pooja finally agreed to eat a few bites after repeated persuasion from her mother. As she finished, she took out her phone and called home.
"The doctors say he's a little better," she said, forcing hope into her voice. "Don't worry... we'll probably be home soon."
Hearing those words brought relief to everyone listening.
For a little while, hope returned to our family.
But hope can be painfully fragile.
Late the following night, just as exhaustion had begun to overpower anxiety, a sharp series of alarms shattered the silence inside the ICU.
The steady beeping suddenly became frantic.
Nurses rushed through the doors.
Within seconds, doctors followed.
One of them looked toward us.
"Please wait outside."
The ICU doors closed.
Nobody spoke.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
Each passing second felt impossibly heavy.
Every time the doors moved, all of us instinctively stood, only to sit down again when another nurse hurried past without saying a word.
The silence became unbearable.
Finally, the doors opened.
The doctor walked toward us slowly, removing his gloves as he came.
His face told us everything before he said a single word.
He stopped in front of Pooja.
"I'm... sorry."
That was all.
Two simple words.
No medical explanation.
No lengthy speech.
Just two words that shattered an entire family.
For several seconds, Pooja simply stared at him.
She blinked once.
Then again.
As though she hadn't understood what she had just heard.
Finally, almost in a whisper, she said,
"No..."
It wasn't a scream.
It wasn't even loud enough for everyone to hear.
It was a single word spoken by someone whose mind refused to accept what reality had already decided.
Abhi stood frozen.
Then, without warning, he turned and struck the concrete wall with his fist.
Once.
Then again.
"Abhi!" I shouted, grabbing him before he could hit it a third time.
He struggled for a moment before collapsing against me.
"He promised..." he whispered, his voice breaking. "He said he'd come home."
I had no words.
I simply held him while both of us cried.
Somewhere behind us, Pooja had fallen into her mother's arms.
The corridor that had carried so much hope only a few hours earlier now echoed with quiet grief.
There were still practical things that had to be done.
Hospital paperwork had to be completed.
Relatives had to be informed.
The death certificate had to be collected.
An ambulance had to be arranged.
While the family struggled to process their loss, I found myself moving from one counter to another, signing forms, answering questions, making phone calls, and speaking with hospital staff. None of it felt real. It simply felt necessary.
By evening, everything was ready.
The journey back to the village was unlike any journey I had ever taken.
Nobody spoke.
The rhythmic hum of the ambulance engine was the only sound.
Pooja sat beside her husband's body, one hand resting gently on the white sheet that covered him. She never looked away. She didn't cry. She simply sat there, staring silently through the window, as though she were still waiting for him to open his eyes.
Sometimes grief is too deep for tears.
As the ambulance entered the village, we saw people already waiting outside.
Word had travelled faster than we had.
Neighbours stepped aside in silence.
The moment the rear doors opened, the quiet finally broke.
The cries of the women echoed through the street.
His parents collapsed as relatives rushed forward to support them.
Pooja stepped out slowly, moving as though every step required all the strength she had left.
Amid the confusion, one small voice rose above the rest.
His little daughter tugged gently at her grandmother's saree.
"Aaji..."
She looked around at the crowd with innocent confusion.
"Why is everyone crying?"
No one answered.
No one could.
When his body was brought inside the house for the final farewell, relatives slowly gathered around one by one.
Someone gently folded back the white cloth covering his face.
Pooja walked forward on trembling legs and knelt beside him.
With shaking hands, she brushed her fingers across his forehead one last time.
For a long moment, she simply looked at him, hoping against hope that he would wake up.
When the elders finally asked her to step back so the rituals could continue, she didn't move.
Her mother tried to lift her gently.
She still refused.
Only when Abhi wrapped an arm around her shoulders did she finally allow herself to be led away, her eyes never leaving her husband.
Nearby, their daughter slipped away from the adults and walked innocently toward the body.
She reached up with her tiny hand and gently touched his arm.
"Baba..."
She waited.
When there was no answer, she spoke again, a little louder.
"Baba... wake up."
The courtyard fell completely silent.
Not a single person could hold back their tears.
Later that evening, as the funeral procession reached the cremation ground, nobody had the strength to speak anymore.
The final prayers were offered.
The rituals were completed.
As the pyre was lit, I didn't watch the flames.
Instead, I looked at the people standing beside me.
Abhi stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Pooja collapsed into her mother's embrace, unable to remain standing any longer.
The smoke slowly rose into the evening sky, carrying away a life that, only days earlier, had seemed destined to continue for decades.
The days that followed passed in a blur of visitors, prayers, condolences, and rituals.
For thirteen days, the house remained full.
Neighbours came.
Relatives stayed.
Friends offered comfort.
Meals were prepared.
Prayers were recited.
No one was ever alone.
Then, almost as quietly as they had arrived, everyone began returning to their own lives.
Cars drove away.
The courtyard became empty.
The constant voices disappeared.
By the end of the thirteenth day, the house had fallen into a silence none of us had ever known.
It was then that the true weight of the loss finally settled over the family.
The rituals were over.
The visitors slowly returned to their own lives.
The courtyard that had been filled with relatives, prayers, and voices for thirteen days had fallen silent once again.
Life outside the house continued as though nothing had happened.
But inside those walls, time seemed to stop.
Every room carried his absence.
Every object reminded someone of him.
And for the first time since the funeral, Pooja found herself facing a silence that no relative, no ritual, and no prayer could fill.
Looking back now, I often think that his death was not the end of our story.
It was only the beginning of another one.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)