Chapter 31: The Poisoned Silence

When Raman met Dr. Sorav Goyal at Delhi Heart & Multispeciality Hospital in Moga, we both felt a fresh wave of hope. Dr. Goyal assured us that a kidney transplant wasn’t immediately necessary, as Raman’s condition was still in the initial stages of CKD. He explained the side effects of the prescribed treatment, and Raman, ever brave, accepted them without hesitation.

The six-month course of medication began, and within just ten days, the swelling in Raman’s body started reducing. His face, limbs—everything began returning to normal. For the first time in weeks, we both breathed with relief. I began hoping again. Our strength as a couple, our quiet prayers, and the doctor’s confidence were all aligning into what felt like a positive turn.

Meanwhile, my younger brother’s wedding was around the corner. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, we could only invite a few close members. After discussions with Raman, we decided only the two of us would attend the marriage ceremony, while the rest of the extended family would join the reception later.

But life, yet again, had its plans.

My father-in-law, who had kept his bitterness wrapped in silence for months, chose this moment to poison Raman’s mind. He insisted that my parents had disrespected them by not inviting everyone for the main wedding. Raman, already vulnerable from his health issues, succumbed to this emotional manipulation. He told me I should attend alone.

That broke something in me.

I had never imagined attending such an important occasion without Raman. But I couldn’t say no—not to the man I loved, not when I saw the conflict in his eyes. I quietly urged my brother Pankaj to personally invite my in-laws, hoping this gesture might soften things.

We attended the wedding with smiles on our faces and storms in our hearts. But the damage had been done. My father-in-law continued his toxic whispers, turning what could have been a celebration into a battlefield of misunderstandings. The pain seeped into every corner of our family’s bond. And once again, I stood between two broken homes, desperately trying to keep both from crumbling.

Soon after the wedding, Karwa Chauth arrived on November 4th. I had always held on to this fast, not just as a tradition but as a spiritual connection with Raman. Yet, like many years before, this Karwa Chauth was no different—smeared with silence, misunderstandings, and tears.

During those days, I noticed a strange shift. My father-in-law began complimenting me—on my looks, my dressing, even my presence. At first, I assumed he was trying to lighten my mood, or maybe bridge the growing distance in the family.

Raman noticed too. He raised his eyebrows at his father’s sudden change in tone. We both felt something was off, but at that time, we didn’t give it a name. Raman’s devotion to his father remained unshaken. He worshipped him like God, and would never dare question his intentions.

But deep within, a discomfort had begun to take root.

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Reflection – Chapter 31:

Sometimes, the people we trust the most become silent sources of pain. Raman’s love for his parents was pure, almost divine—but that very love was used to break him, and me. When families should have become each other's strength, we were instead woven into misunderstandings by whispers and manipulation. Looking back, I often wonder if Raman sensed the storm building inside his own home… or did he ignore it, just like I did, for the sake of peace? In trying to save our relationships, we lost too many pieces of ourselves.

Chapter 30 – The Turning Point

 After seeing the devastating reports at Fortis, our minds began spinning, unable to silence the haunting echoes of Shera Baba’s words and my father’s warnings. The idea of black magic, once too far-fetched to consider, now lingered in the background of every conversation. We couldn’t explain how or why this was happening, but we also couldn’t ignore that something beyond logic seemed to be playing a part.

We decided to return to Ferozepur—our comfort zone—to consult our trusted family doctor and a few local specialists. Amidst these visits, we met Shera Baba again. He looked at Raman with concern and guided us to perform certain rituals to seek divine protection and strength. Desperate for any form of relief, we agreed and offered prayers with full faith.

For a brief while, it felt like the prayers had worked. Raman’s reports showed improvement—our hopes reignited. But just like every other time, this recovery didn’t last. Soon, his creatinine levels began climbing again, as if our optimism was being tested again and again.

Determined not to waste more time, we sought out Dr. Aulakh, a reputed kidney specialist. He advised a biopsy to understand the underlying cause. Raman was admitted to the hospital for the procedure. My brother Paras and my father-in-law accompanied us to Ludhiana to support us emotionally. I felt a little less alone in those moments.

The wait for the biopsy results was painfully long—ten days of anxiety. When the results finally came in, the words “Chronic Kidney Disease” were scribbled in bold. But thankfully, the stage wasn't critical yet. Dr. Aulakh was hopeful. “No transplant for now. Just proper medication and close monitoring for the next three months,” he assured us.

Life didn’t stop testing us. During this fragile period, both Raman and I got infected with COVID-19. Thankfully, the symptoms were mild—we only lost our sense of taste and smell. But little did we know, even a minor infection could be silently pushing Raman further into danger. His immunity was already compromised, and every little setback was worsening the disease, though we couldn’t see it at the time.

I turned into a night owl, endlessly scrolling through articles, blogs, and medical journals about CKD (Chronic Kidney Disease). I was hungry for information, desperate for a cure, and terrified of the unknown. But despite following every instruction and trying allopathic and even homeopathy medicine, the pattern repeated—initial relief, then sudden deterioration. Each failed attempt chipped away a little more of our hope.

Amid all this, came a moment we had long waited for—my younger brother’s wedding. He shared a deep bond with Raman, and we were excited to celebrate love and new beginnings. But our joy was crushed when Raman’s entire body swelled up—his face, hands, legs, and arms

But our joy was crushed when Raman’s entire body swelled up—his face, hands, legs, and arms looked nothing like they used to. He was in visible discomfort, yet he tried to hide his pain behind a weak smile, not wanting to spoil the celebrations. But I could see through it—my heart sank. The excitement we had held onto for my brother’s wedding faded into fear and helplessness.

In search of better treatment, we came across Dr. Sorav Goyal at Delhi Heart & Multi-Specialty Hospital, Moga. There was a glimmer of hope again. We immediately decided to consult him. But something strange had started to repeat—a pattern that hurt more than I could express. Every time we planned a doctor’s visit together, Raman’s father would subtly suggest I stay home or at work. “You’re already taking too many leaves, Rabia. If both of you are absent, what will people say?” he'd insist.

Despite my instincts screaming otherwise, I gave in—thinking perhaps practicality was more important than emotion. With a heavy heart, I stayed back each time. I hated watching Raman walk into appointments alone, but I tried to convince myself that we were doing what was necessary for the long run.

Inside, however, I was crumbling.

I wanted to be there to hold his hand during those tests. I wanted to be beside him when the doctor spoke. I wanted to be his strength, not just emotionally but physically too—sitting beside him, asking questions, remembering every medical instruction. But the cruel truth of our responsibilities, family expectations, and unspoken barriers kept creating distance even when all I wanted was closeness.

And yet, despite all this, Raman never complained. He would return from every appointment with a hopeful tone, trying to protect me from more worry. “Everything’s fine, Rabia. Just a few more precautions,” he’d say with his soft smile—the same smile that held our world together through the darkest storms.

But somewhere deep down, we both knew… the battle was no longer just medical—it had become emotional, spiritual, and silent.

Reflection – There’s a guilt I carry from this chapter—a guilt that I wasn’t physically present beside Raman when he needed me the most. Even though I was emotionally there, the absence during those doctor visits haunts me. Society, responsibilities, and unspoken pressure forced me to sit back when my heart wanted to run after him. And while I don’t blame anyone, I do question—why do we, as women, keep sacrificing even in the moments when love demands our presence? If I could go back, I would choose differently… I would have held his hand through it all, come what may.

Chapter 29 – The Silent Storm

 Amidst the chaos of the COVID-19 pandemic, when the world was gripped by fear and confusion, a different storm was silently approaching our lives. While people were battling with infections and lockdowns, we found ourselves facing something unexpected—Raman’s health had started showing subtle signs of trouble.

It began with something that seemed minor—slightly elevated creatinine levels in his routine reports. Since we were living in Ludhiana, a city known for advanced medical care, we consulted local doctors. Their response gave us temporary comfort: “It’s not a major issue. Just a reaction to stress or irregular routine. A course of medication for 15–20 days should stabilize everything.”

Raman began his medicines, and within a week, his reports improved. We were relieved, hopeful, and eager to move past it. But alongside the treatment, Raman also consulted Shera Baba, a religious mentor he respected deeply. What he heard next shook us both—Baba claimed it was not just a health issue, but the result of black magic.

My father echoed the same belief. It was hard to digest. Why would anyone wish to harm us? We were just an ordinary couple living a simple life. What had we done to deserve such negativity?

Unfortunately, that brief period of relief was short-lived. Just when we thought things were back to normal, Raman’s creatinine levels spiked again. This time, the fluctuations were unpredictable—one week it would drop, the next it would shoot up again. Confusion began to replace calm.

We couldn’t take chances anymore. We decided to consult a specialist at Fortis Hospital. Raman, always the brave one, insisted on going alone. He said, “There’s nothing serious, I’ll go, get tested and come back.” I didn’t want him to go alone, but I respected his strength and agreed.

Hours later, Raman walked into my office with a heavy face but a composed tone. He handed me the reports. My heart sank. The numbers didn’t match the man I saw—he looked healthy, was active, and yet the reports screamed danger. His creatinine and cholesterol levels were alarmingly high. The doctors didn’t hesitate—they recommended an immediate kidney transplant.

We were stunned. How could this be real? There were no visible symptoms. No pain. No weakness. Just a man full of life… now suddenly told that his kidneys were failing.

It was the beginning of a battle we never saw coming.

Reflection – Raman’s courage during this phase still echoes in my heart. While the world feared COVID, we were dealing with a deeper, more personal war. Watching his reports change overnight taught me how fragile the illusion of stability is. One day you’re planning dinner, the next day you’re reading creatinine levels. Yet Raman never let fear dominate—he stood like a pillar, holding me even when he was the one needing support. And I? I kept telling myself that it’s just a phase… not knowing that denial was the only coping mechanism I had left.

Chapter 28 – The Last Splash of Colours

The most happening days of our lives were between October 2019 and February 2020. Those few months gave us the kind of peace, love, and alignment we had long hoped for. Our families had finally come to terms with each other. The tension that once clouded our home had faded, replaced by warmth and understanding.

Shivratri 2020 remains etched in my heart. Raman and I spent it together with so much devotion and simplicity. It felt like a divine blessing was upon us. Then came Holi—the most colourful, laughter-filled Holi of our lives.

Holi had always been special to me, not just as a festival but as a symbol of my bond with Raman. It was the very first festival we celebrated together as a couple. He was the first person to put colours on my face—softly, lovingly, smiling into my eyes—and from that moment, Holi wasn’t just about hues, it was about him. About the way he brought colour into my life when I was surrounded by dull greys.

That year, Holi was like a painting of happiness. The splash of colours, the joy in Raman’s eyes, the giggles of Mukul, and the united vibe of our loved ones—it was magical. We didn’t know then… that it would be our last Holi like that.

Because life had already started weaving a storm in the background.

In March 2020, as we returned to Ludhiana after our Holi visit to Ferozepur, Raman noticed swelling in his legs. We both assumed it was due to the hectic work schedule and long hours at school. We dismissed it casually… unaware that those swollen legs were the first quiet signs of the battle that lay ahead.

Reflection – Looking back, I now realize how life always gives subtle hints before a storm. That Holi was more than a celebration—it was our last untouched moment of joy. Raman was the first person to ever put color on my face, and unknowingly, he became the color in my life. I had a deep connection with Holi, not because of the festival itself, but because it was ours. That year, the splash of colors hid the grey clouds that were silently approaching. I often wonder—if I had known what lay ahead, would I have celebrated more or held him tighter that day?

Chapter 27: The Calm Before the Storm

 Life in Ludhiana was blooming, and so were we.

Raman and I had grown not just as a couple but as professionals too. I had been promoted to Senior Executive – IT, a role that made me feel empowered, seen, and appreciated for my skills beyond the classroom. I wasn’t teaching anymore; I was contributing to something larger—transforming the school's digital infrastructure and presence. My identity was evolving.

Raman, too, had found his rhythm as Administrative Officer at another branch of DCM Group in the same city. Though we worked at different branches, our hearts were always aligned. We were proud of each other, cheering silently through the long workdays.

We were living on the school campus—safe, peaceful, and surprisingly fulfilling. Mukul had joined Prep-I at Raman’s branch. Watching him run with his tiny bag and greet his papa during breaks brought a smile that lingered on our faces for hours. Our weekends were either spent visiting Ferozepur or welcoming family at our Ludhiana home. For the first time, both sides of the family had started to come together with warmth instead of friction.

I had slowly become an accepted, even cherished, part of Raman’s family. The taunts were now stories of laughter. The coldness had turned into concern. Sometimes, even I couldn’t believe how different life had become.

But happiness, like seasons, has a habit of changing without warning.

In August, Raman fell ill—first typhoid, then dengue. We didn’t take it lightly. Consultations, medications, diet changes—we did it all in Ludhiana. His father even came over to help. But Raman wasn't getting better. Weakness gripped his body, and his spark was fading. We changed doctors, but nothing worked.

After 15 long, stressful days, we took the call to shift Raman to Ferozepur, to our trusted family doctor.

It was the right decision.

Within a week, Raman began to recover. But the recovery came at a cost. The doctors had prescribed strong antibiotics, which, though life-saving, left behind their silent footprints in his system. We didn’t know it then—but his body had absorbed more than just medicine.

Still, relief overshadowed fear. Seeing him walk again, smile again, and joke with Mukul gave us all a breath of life. We returned to Ludhiana, to our routine, our school, our normalcy.

By the end of November, it felt like love had returned with a freshness we hadn’t felt in years. There were flirty texts, secret smiles, evening teas on the school terrace, and long hugs under quiet skies. Mukul was growing up, and with him, our bond too had matured.

For the first time in a long time, we weren’t just surviving—we were living.

Reflection:

We often think we’ve outrun the storm when we see sunlight again. But sometimes, that light is just a pause—a gift to let us breathe before the next wave hits. And we, unaware, dance in the calm, holding hands, soaking in every drop of happiness.

Chapter 26: A City of New Hopes

Ludhiana welcomed us with fresh energy. The shift to DCM Group of Schools wasn’t just a career move—it was symbolic. It felt like we were finally walking on common ground, professionally aligned, personally more understanding, and emotionally less tangled. Raman and I had started talking more freely. Arguments had given way to conversations, and silence had finally found a voice.

We were not perfect—but we were trying.

Living in a new city brought a sense of anonymity, a clean slate. There were no familiar faces to judge us, no relatives knocking on the doors of our privacy. Just me, Raman, and Mukul—our small world.

Mukul, now a toddler, had become the center of our little universe. He was talking, laughing, exploring everything. His growing bond with Raman was heartwarming. I still wasn’t the overly expressive mother I had dreamt of being, but I was learning. His smile, his tiny hands pulling me into his world, slowly melted the wall I had unknowingly built around my heart.

At work, I rediscovered myself. I wasn’t just a wife or a mother—I was Rabia again. The confident, creative, and ambitious woman I used to be. My digital skills, my passion for design and technology, and my ability to connect with students and staff gave me a sense of purpose.

Raman seemed proud of me.

For the first time in a long time, we were not just partners—we were companions.

We would walk together to nearby markets on Sundays, holding Mukul’s hand between us. Sometimes we wouldn’t even talk, but the silence wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was warm. Familiar.

But life, as I had come to understand, rarely flows without turbulence for too long.

Just when everything seemed to be settling, small cracks started showing again—subtle, yet sharp. Long work hours, pressures from extended family, and growing responsibilities started to pull us in different directions again. But this time, something had changed.

We didn’t let those cracks become walls.

We had both been through enough to know that silence could kill love faster than any argument. So we kept talking—sometimes gently, sometimes with raised voices—but we never stopped.

In those months, I often dreamt of temples, lights, and peace. I believed somewhere that Raman and I were being given a second chance—by life, by the universe, maybe even by fate itself.

And I was determined not to waste it.

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Reflection:

When you’ve already walked through fire with someone, you learn to treasure the warmth of ordinary days. Ludhiana was that warmth—a soft pause before the next storm.

Chapter 25: A New Town, A New Chapter

When Raman received an offer to work in Bhagha Purana, a small town near Moga, we saw it as a chance to breathe—away from family politics and suffocating expectations. We hoped that this move would finally give us time to reconnect, rebuild, and simply be us again.

The family agreed to the shift, but not without drama—of course, my Karwachauth was ruined again, shadowed by yet another emotional storm. Despite the bitterness, we packed our lives and stepped into a new beginning, holding back our emotions and carrying silent prayers to make it work… just a little longer.

Life there was different.

Raman would stay busy till late evening with work, while I found myself caught between daily chores and long hours of free time. That "free time" became my mind's worst enemy — fueling overthinking and sadness.

Mukul was 1.3 years old by then, growing fast, full of innocence. I had a little companion beside me, yet I still struggled to feel the warmth of motherhood. Perhaps the emotional rollercoaster we had endured left me numb. I wasn’t the pampering type—not because I didn’t love him, but because somewhere deep within, I still hadn’t healed enough to feel whole.

Mukul, however, shared a magical bond with Raman. He would wait by the door, eyes lit with hope, until Raman returned. Their laughter filled the house in ways I couldn’t, and instead of feeling jealous, I felt grateful. Watching them together gave me a kind of peace I couldn’t find anywhere else.

After about six months, we moved back to Ferozepur. The long working hours and low salary in Bhagha Purana were just not sustainable.

Back home, Raman found work with an FMCG company while I joined Vivekananda World School. Life started finding rhythm again. I made new friends, and one of them—Prianka Mittal—soon became very close to me. She was the wife of Nipur, Raman’s closest friend and also my schoolmate. This bond brought me and Raman even closer, creating a familiar circle of comfort and trust.

Our relationship began to stabilize.

We had stopped keeping score, stopped counting each other’s flaws.

Even the family atmosphere had softened—there were fewer storms, more calm.

After about a year, both Raman and I received an opportunity to join DCM Group of Schools in Ludhiana. It felt like destiny was finally holding our hands.

We joined together, ready for this next adventure—this time, as a stronger team.

And with time, even the family seemed to have accepted me. Or perhaps I had finally learned not to seek their approval.

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Reflection:

Sometimes healing doesn't come from big moments, but from quiet changes, new friendships and the decision to stop fighting love.

Chapter 24: The Hug That Healed

At a time when everything seemed to be falling apart, my sister-in-law Preet and her husband DP became the pillars holding our relationship from complete collapse.

They stood by me and bravely confronted Raman about the emotional distance, the Facebook chats, and the pain both of us were drowning in.

Raman opened up, finally. He shared how deeply he had been hurt by my family’s behavior and the contents of my diary.

Feeling emotionally abandoned, he found comfort in an online friend—someone he had never met, but felt safe talking to during that lonely phase of his life.

He admitted that it was never about love for that girl—it was about finding a space to speak when he couldn’t talk to me.

Preet and DP didn’t just stop at confrontation.

They gave Raman heartfelt advice: “Rather than living in silence, speak to Rabia. Share your anger, your fears, your wounds—but don’t punish each other with silence. Every problem has a solution if there’s love, and real love means fighting for each other, not with each other.”

They turned to me too. Preet said gently, “Even when Raman is upset, don’t mirror his silence. Break the pattern. Speak up, take that first step. Sometimes love needs one person to lead the way.”

Their words hit home.

Something shifted that day.

Raman looked at me, teary-eyed, and said, “I’m sorry.” Then he hugged me.

That hug—after so many days of distance, pain, and doubt—felt like a flood of peace washing over my soul.

In his arms, I felt like I could breathe again.

Our hearts realigned, slowly stitching together the torn pieces.

We smiled, held each other’s hands, and promised: No matter what the world says, we’ll clear the air with each other first. No more silence. No more assumptions. Just us.

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Reflection:

“Sometimes, it only takes one sincere hug to quiet the storms that words cannot."

Chapter 23: My Diary, His Secrets

The initial 40 days after Mukul’s birth, I stayed at my parents' house. During this time, my sister—who was working as my replacement at my job—found my diary. She read through it completely and then showed it to my family.

Everyone was furious.

They told me I should never return to Raman’s house—my own home. The Middleman was called again, and he too was told everything. Soon after, Raman’s parents visited, and my parents didn’t hold back. In their anger, they said many hurtful things to them.

The diary that was once my silent companion had now become the cause of a storm. Everything seemed to be falling apart.

Then, my elder brother went to meet Raman. He told him, “This fight between families will never end. If both of you keep listening to your respective families, you’ll never find happiness. If you love each other, ignore them all and take Rabia home. Or else, just stand back and watch this relationship turn into a public drama.”

My brother’s words touched Raman deeply. He realized that the love he had once fought so hard for was slipping away because of parental egos.

But somewhere inside, Raman also felt betrayed. He thought I had been telling my family every little thing from the start, and perhaps everything his parents were saying about me was true.

He felt torn between loyalty to his parents and his relationship with me.

Still, for Mukul’s sake, he decided to give our relationship one last chance.

But by then, there was no real place for me in his heart.

I returned with Raman to our home. I was hoping for better days, for healing, for a new beginning. But instead, things became more complicated. My in-laws refused to take care of Mukul and asked me to quit my job. I resigned. The school offered a permanent post to my sister in my place.

Now, apart from Mukul, I had nothing.

My day revolved around taking care of him and my sister-in-law’s child, doing household work, and going to bed exhausted. Raman was mostly glued to his mobile and barely talked to me.

One day, Raman was working on the computer when a friend dropped by, and he left with him. The system was still on, and out of curiosity, I went to shut it down.

To my surprise, I found a new Facebook account logged in—it belonged to Raman.

Shocked, I checked the profile. Out of sheer curiosity and growing suspicion, I went through his friend list and messages.

That’s when I found it—daily chats with a girl, full of personal conversations, including everything about our fights and our relationship. It seemed she was much more than just a friend.

My eyes filled with tears.

I had never doubted Raman before. That day, my heart broke in silence. I took screenshots of the chats and shut the computer down.

I didn’t confront him. I just kept blaming myself—how did my life reach this point?

A few days later, my sister-in-law saw the screenshots in my phone and asked me about them. I told her the truth.

She spoke to her husband, and both of them called us in for a talk. Raman was confronted.

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Reflection:

“Some truths don’t shatter the world—they simply erase the last bit of faith you were holding onto. Trust, once broken, doesn’t echo—it disappears in silence.”