Usha Rashmi Pandey
Unaware of her action, she was staring at them. They were at the table next to hers – a family of three. A father, a mother, and a chubby little child whose every movement was adorable. The mother, engrossed in her meal, was munching on a plate full of momos, while the father carefully fed the baby. In between, he would pause to take a sip of his coffee. They looked happy, content and complete.
She was pulled from her quiet reverie by a voice addressing her.
“Ma’am!”
Startled, she looked up to find a waiter standing before her, a tray with a glass of water and a menu in hand, his face adorned with a polite smile.
“What would you like to order?” he asked.
She took the water glass, hesitated for a moment, then softly replied, “Vegetable momos, please.”
As she waited for her food, she resolved not to glance at the family again. She didn’t want to make them uncomfortable with her lingering gaze. Instead, she turned her attention outside. Her eyes wandered across the garden until they settled on a group of children playing around a massive tree. They seemed to be around ten or twelve years old, their laughter ringing through the air.
One boy, in particular, caught her eye—a child in a red hoodie. He run away from his friends and leaped toward a bush, hiding himself behind it. Hide-and-seek, she guessed.
Just then, the waiter arrived with her order. But instead of reaching for the plate, she stood up and asked, “Can I sit outside?” Without waiting for a response, she pointed to an empty seat and started walking toward it. The waiter followed, carrying her snack.
Now, she was closer to the boy in the red hoodie. Something about his presence enticed her, an invisible force pulling her into his world. As she watched the children play, a wave of nostalgia washed over her—a flood of emotions crashing in at once: joy, longing, regret, pain, and something else—something deeper.
She remembered the hospital, the cold sheets beneath her, the bright lights overhead. They were taking her to the C-section ward. She had always feared even the smallest wounds. But this time was different—she was eager and fearless. The anticipation of seeing the tiny life growing inside her filled her with impatience. She felt as if the baby, too, was eager to take its first breath in the world outside the womb.
The medical team began the procedure, their voices cheerful, chatting and singing as they operated. Slowly, she felt herself falling into oblivion. Then, she heard it—the first cry of her child. A rush of joy spread through her body. She longed to stand, to hold her newborn in her arms. She fought against the weight of anesthesia, struggling to keep her eyes open.
A nurse brought the baby close. “Congratulations! You have a son!” she whispered cheerfully. Tears of joy streamed down her face.
Then, everything faded into darkness.
She found herself drifting in a scary silence, struggling for breath. Panic gripped her as she tried to move, but her body refused to obey. She fought to speak, forcing out barely audible words. “Where am I? Please… call my husband. I… I’m dying.”
A gentle voice reached her through the void. “Bahini…” The caretaker was by her side. Moments later, her husband arrived, his presence comforted her. Through him, she learned that their baby was in the natal intensive care unit.
A deep longing filled her—a desperate urge to hold her child, to feel his warmth against her chest. Morning felt like an eternity away. But when it came, her husband placed their son in her lap. The tiny boy responded immediately, his fingers curling tightly around her thumb, his eyes locking onto hers with an unspoken connection. In that moment, she knew—he had waited for her, just as she had waited for him.
The desire to see her baby grew stronger by the minutes. Though weakened by surgery and the remaining effects of anesthesia, she mustered all her strength. With a saline bottle in one hand and her husband’s support in the other, she took careful, strained steps toward the NICU in the afternoon. They told her the baby had only a minor issue, that he would recover soon. In her fragile state, she believed them. She didn’t think about her pain—only about love. And that love gave her the strength to keep moving, to reach for her son.
On the fifth day of his birth, his absence made her an orphaned mother. His passing shattered her, leaving her confined to bed for days. Fever consumed her, her body weakened, and sorrow robbed her of any desire to eat. Even when she tried, her distressed stomach rejected everything except small portions of curd and rice. The pain was relentless—emotional, mental, physical, and psychological. It silenced her so completely that she didn’t even have the strength to cry.
Her parents came, to take her with them, but she refused to go with them. It was her husband’s presence that she yearned for. She couldn’t bear to be apart from him—he was the only one who could truly understand her anguish. Their loss was mutual, and she held the belief that only he could ease her suffering.
Neighbors and relatives visited daily, offering condolences, but their words stung like salt on an open wound. Though some had genuine sympathy, most merely pitied her husband and seemed to be there just to please her-in-laws, dismissing her pain. Their whispers carried blame, subtle yet piercing. They saw her as a bearer of misfortune, an unlucky woman. Her mother-in-law made no effort to hide her disdain, proudly stating that none of her daughters or other daughters-in-law had ever faced such a tragedy. Yet, she was too numb with sorrow to react to their cruelty.
But what hurt the most was her husband’s cold indifference. He busied himself with visitors, nephews, and nieces, barely acknowledging her presence. She spent most of her time lying alone in bed, too weak to move, the continuous bleeding worsening her condition. At night, her mother-in-law often slept in their room. She lay alone on the bed, while her husband and mother-in-law slept on the floor.
One evening, exhausted, she dozed off right after eating. A sudden, violent jolt woke her—a stabbing pain shot through her abdomen. In the dim light, she saw her husband standing over her, his eyes burning with rage. He had struck her.
“You bitch! Why didn’t you ask my mother to sleep here? She told me she came by earlier, but you didn’t respond to her properly, so she had to leave.” he spat.
Shocked, she couldn’t utter a word. She had seen his temper before, but never had she imagined he would turn on her like this, not when she was already drowning in pain. Silent tears streamed down her face.
As time passed, her burdens only grew heavier. The pressure of returning to work, impending deadlines, and the weight of her grief deteriorated her state with her husband’s increasing distance. Though they shared a home, he was becoming a stranger—irresponsible, short-tempered, withdrawn. She ached for another child, longing for a spark of hope, a reason to move forward. But he showed no interest. Indeed, he was never interested in having children. That’s why, she became pregnant only five years after their marriage. However, she had not been as desperate before as she was after losing her firstborn.
Her friends, colleagues, and relatives encouraged her to have another baby soon. However, she noticed that no one, whether from his family or hers, questioned or urged her husband about having a child. She alone was constantly prodded on the matter by everyone she encountered.
Whenever she tried to talk to her husband about it, he reacted poorly, leading to more frequent arguments between them. At first, she remained silent, with the hope that things would improve.
She started to become moody, irritable, and prone to frequent arguments. Bitterness crept into her words, and frustration became her constant companion. Gradually, even her husband’s family came to know his reluctance toward having children and taking any responsibility. Their silence appeared to ignore their son’s irresponsibility and mistreatment of her while expressing disdain toward her.
Her condition worsened with each passing day. She turned to antidepressants, seeking relief from the unbearable weight of her emotions. Sensing her vulnerability, her husband and his family spread whispers that she was mentally unstable, using it as an excuse to justify his refusal to have children.
The women in the household seized every opportunity to belittle her, making her feel incomplete, less than human just because of not having kids. She was labeled as a sick woman, unworthy of sympathy or support. No one stood by her—emotionally or financially. She had to stand for herself, struggling to survive in a home that no longer felt like hers.
Her suffering became a convenient scapegoat, a shield to protect her husband from blame. In losing her child, she had lost everything. Though surrounded by family, she was utterly alone—just as an orphaned child is left adrift after losing a mother.
She refused to succumb to fate. With the guidance of her counselor and the support of her friends, she adopted a healthier lifestyle, embraced meditation and yoga, and gradually reclaimed her self-esteem. Determined to rebuild her life, she made the bold decision to move to a new town, leaving behind the weight of her past.
She is healing piece by piece, day by day. But some wounds never fully fade. Whenever she sees children playing, parents holding hands of their children, a familiar ache resurfaces.
