A few months later, in February 2021, Raman returned from a routine hospital checkup. The spark on his face, the glow in his eyes—it all left me in awe. He was smiling like a child who had just received his favorite toy.
He handed me the reports. Everything was normal—so normal, it was as if this disease had never touched him. It felt like a miracle. The doctor had said he just needed one more month of medication, and then he would be absolutely fine.
Our happiness knew no bounds. After a long, painful journey, life had finally given us something to celebrate. We thanked God for His blessings. For a while, we were floating in a cloud of relief, a peace we hadn’t known for so long.
With renewed hope, both of us got busy with our work. But while everything seemed fine on the outside, something was quietly withering between us. The warmth we once shared had turned into silence. We were distant even when we sat side by side.
In my heart, a storm was gathering. I had started thinking that once Raman’s treatment ended, I would talk to him about separating. I felt like I was dying inside, suffocated by the unresolved tension and endless family politics. I had no clue what was going on in his mind, but I could feel the emptiness between us growing wider each day.
Raman was so engrossed in his work that he barely had time for me. That hurt deeply. I began to believe that the love between us had faded. We were just living together, out of habit… or maybe for Mukul.
I buried myself in work too, but the one who suffered the most was our little boy. Mukul was growing up in the shadows of our silence. He spent his school vacations in Ferozepur with his grandparents, where he was loved and pampered. His bond with them was growing stronger with every visit, while mine—with everyone—was slowly becoming just a formality.
As I mentally prepared myself for separation, Raman, on the other hand, was making plans to bring his parents to Ludhiana permanently. He often spoke of buying a house big enough for all of us. I didn’t object anymore—not because I had found peace with them, but because I had stopped expecting any change. It didn’t matter whether we lived together or apart. Their influence on Raman was deep-rooted—too strong to challenge anymore.
One day, my old friend Irveen visited us in Ludhiana. Raman knew about him. I had shared some of my inner turmoil with Irveen, and he had offered to visit casually—to observe and maybe get a better sense of what Raman was thinking.
During the visit, Irveen tried to nudge Raman gently, joking, “You’re such a lucky man, Raman. I envy you. Rabia is a gem.”
But Raman showed no reaction. No smile. No discomfort. No possessiveness. Nothing.
It was that nothingness that said everything.
Reflection:
Sometimes, silence speaks louder than words. Raman’s calmness that day didn’t bring me peace—it shattered it. I wasn’t looking for dramatic reactions. I just longed for some sign that I still mattered. That we still mattered. But I saw no trace of that.
And in that moment, I realized something painful: even in happiness, we were strangers, lost in the same home, breathing the same air, but not the same love.
No comments:
Post a Comment