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Anisha's POV
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In the dimly lit room, soft golden patterns painted the walls as sunlight filtered through the curtains. Clutching the framed photograph tightly against my chest, I felt the cool glass against my trembling fingers, tears uncontrollably streaming down my face. Sahil's smiling face stared back at me, a bittersweet reminder of the love we had shared and the grief still clutching my heart.
Today marked what would have been our fourth wedding anniversary, but instead, it was Sahil's second death anniversary.
Five years ago, on this very date, I became his wife, and two years ago, his widow.
Sahil and I had crossed paths when I was just 21, during our college years. He was in the final stretch of his two-year master's degree, while I was wrapping up my three-year bachelor's degree. Introduced by a mutual friend, we felt a spark from the moment we first met.
Four years into our relationship, we decided to take the plunge and get married. Our love was an all-encompassing force, painting our lives with joy, compassion, and affection. Days passed by in the blink of an eye, and a year after our wedding, we welcomed our daughter, Maisha, into the world.
Our life together was a beautiful necklace, the three of us like pearls, tightly woven. But then, on this very day, two years ago, everything crumbled. The pearls scattered, and our once-harmonious life came crashing down.
I remember that day vividly. Sahil's close childhood friend had returned after two years from USA. He, along with all his friends, was going for a lunch they had hosted in honor of their dear friend's arrival.
"Anisha!" I heard my husband's voice as I boiled milk for Maisha in the kitchen.
I rushed out of the kitchen to see my husband tying his shoelaces.
"When will you be back?" I asked him.
"Soon, baby. Stay ready for our special date tonight," he winked and planted a peck on my lips.
"Chalo, main jaa raha hoon," He said. ("Okay, I am going.")
"Sahil! Kitni baar kaha hai main jaa raha hoon nahi, bolo main jaakar aa raha hoon," I snapped at him.
("How many times have I told you not to say I'm going, instead say I'm going and coming back?")
He laughed and kissed Maisha, who was sitting and playing on the floor, "Okay, okay, bye, jaan!"
He went away, as he had said, but didn't return as I had asked.
In the evening, he did return, but as a mere lifeless body, shrouded in the cold, white hospital sheets.
Just two hours after he left, I had managed to put Maisha to sleep with great effort, when my phone rang. Thinking it was a call from a friend or family to wish us on our anniversary, I rushed to pick it up, little did I know that it would change everything completely.
Sahil had met with a fatal accident on the outskirts of the city as he was returning. His car had collided with another vehicle. He was alive at the scene, but all hospitals were far away, and by the time he was brought to the hospital, he had already taken his last breath.
Life never remained the same after that devastating moment. The loss of Sahil left a void that seemed impossible to fill. Our home, once filled with laughter and love, now echoes with silence and sorrow. Every corner, every memory, is a painful reminder of what we have lost.
Life after that day has become a journey through grief and healing, a journey I never asked for but am forced to undertake. And with each passing day, I learn to carry the weight of loss a little better, always cherishing the love and memories Sahil has left behind.
Every anniversary, every milestone, every moment that Sahil should have been a part of feels incomplete. The dreams we had shared, the plans we had made, all shattered in an instant. And yet, I know I have to be strong, if not for myself, for Maisha.
Bringing up Maisha has been a monumental challenge. I've tried my best to play the roles of both mother and father to her, but the weight of this responsibility is often overwhelming. She is on the brink of turning four, and I can't help but feel the absence of Sahil keenly.
Despite the difficulties, I've been fortunate to have received a lot of help in her upbringing, especially from Sahil's parents and Mr. Raichand.
I miss Sahil in every moment, both the joyous and the trying, especially as I navigate the significant milestones and formidable challenges that come with raising Maisha. But I hold steadfast to the belief that he is watching over us, a guiding presence in our lives.
Closing my eyes briefly, I allowed myself to drift back to the times Sahil and I had spent together. His laughter, his teasing, and his love had filled those moments. Now, they were memories I held close to my heart.
There was a soft knock on the door of my bedroom. I quickly placed the photograph on the table, wiped away my tears, and then opened the door.
"Maa!" It was my mother-in-law.
She offered me a kind smile and said, "Let's go, pandit ji is here."
"Yeah, you go ahead. I'll be there in a moment," I replied.
Just as in the past year, Sahil's parents held a pooja today, fervently praying to God for offering peace to their son and bestowing upon us the strength to fight through his absence.
I, once a firm believer in God, have felt my trust in Him waver after Sahil's death.
Everyone says He is kind, but I have always witnessed His cruelty.
First, my mom's death, then my dad's, and now Sahil's.
The weight of these losses has left me questioning the fairness of Him, as I struggle to make sense of the pain and sorrow that have engulfed my life.
I rushed downstairs and saw my in-laws, a few of Sahil's relatives, and Mr. Raichand sitting somberly. A huge photograph of Sahil was placed in the center.
I took my place in the corner as the priest began to chant the mantras.
A while later, he asked us to replace the garland hung on his photo. Sahil's father called me forward. With tears streaming from my eyes, I approached the photograph.
I carefully removed the old garland and replaced it with another on the image of the man I had once placed the varmala on, asking for his love and togetherness for seven lifetimes. But, to my utter misfortune, he couldn't be with me even for a single lifetime.
The pooja soon came to an end.
I was in the kitchen, helping Maa, when my phone suddenly rang.
It displayed an unknown number on the screen.
With curiosity, I picked up the phone and was taken aback by what the voice on the other end had to say.
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Ten minutes later, I found myself seated in the back seat of Mr. Raichand's sleek car, the driver at the wheel while he occupied the front seat.
The unexpected call had come from Maisha's school, and they had urgently requested my presence.
When I asked for more details, they were cryptic, only urging me to hurry.
I rushed upstairs, changed my shoes, grabbed my bag, and made a beeline for her school.
In the living room, I found Mr. Raichand and my father-in-law sitting. Papa, seeing my anxious state, inquired about the situation.
I shared the contents of the phone call, and Mr. Raichand offered to accompany me.
I resisted initially but ultimately gave in to his insistence.
I was consumed by concern and worry, my thoughts racing about what could have gone wrong with my daughter when I let out my fifteenth sigh.
"Calm down, Anisha! Maisha is going to be fine," I heard Mr. Raichand's stern voice.
With a soft murmur, I replied, "Yes, Sir."
We arrived at Maisha's school, and I hurried into the principal's office.
Inside, I noticed a woman sitting across from the principal's desk, with Maisha and a girl of her age standing in a corner, accompanied by their class teacher.
The principal acknowledged my presence, saying, "Mrs. Mehta, please come in."
I greeted her with a soft, "Hello, Ma'am," and she gestured for me to take a seat beside the other woman.
The principal began, "Mrs. Mehta, we are sorry, but we have received a complaint about your daughter. She allegedly slapped a classmate of hers."
Slapped? My daughter slapped someone?
I couldn't believe it. I turned to look at Maisha and saw a guilty look in her eyes.
Maisha has always been a kind, sweet, and gentle girl. Her grandparents and I have tried our best to raise her with love and values. I've always been immensely proud of her. Witnessing her display such behavior was a tremendous shock for me.
The class teacher proceeded to describe the entire incident, explaining how the two girls had gotten into an argument and how Maisha had eventually slapped the other girl.
The principal addressed me, saying, "Mrs. Mehta, we expect better conduct from our students. It's disheartening to see a bright and intelligent girl like Maisha involved in such behavior."
The other woman, seemingly the other girl's mother, spoke up, her tone filled with judgment, "I don't understand how you've raised your daughter. What kind of values are you teaching your daughter? This is so unacceptable, such a shame!"
I took a deep breath, trying to maintain composure in the face of her criticism.
"I understand your concern, and I apologize for Maisha's behavior. We will address this issue seriously." I gently replied.
She huffed and said, "What should I do with your apology?" Then, she turned to the principal and firmly stated, "Ma'am, you need to take strict action against the girl. Kids like her are just trouble, nothing less. At this age only, she is going around, slapping people. Only god knows, what she will do when she grows older. I suggest you remove her from school."
I felt disheartened hearing her words.
"And who are you to decide that?" came a rough, deep, yet stern voice.
Atharva Raichand.
He stood there in all his glory, dressed in a white kurta pyjama, he had worn earlier today, to honour my husband's memory.
A mixed look of surprise and shock passed onto the faces of the principal, the teacher, and the other woman.
Atharva Raichand was a man who commanded respect wherever he went. With an air of authority and a presence that could not be ignored, he carried himself.
At that moment, as he stood there, the room seemed to hold its breath, recognizing the gravity of his presence.
"Mr. Raichand!" The principal rose from her seat, acknowledging his presence with a mixture of respect and surprise.
In that pivotal moment, he took control of the situation, displaying the same calm authority that defined him in every aspect of life. He addressed the principal firmly but with a gentleness that put everyone at ease.
"Ma'am, I understand the seriousness of the situation, but Maisha is a nice girl. Before we consider any harsh actions, could you please give us a chance to ask her for the reason behind her actions?" he inquired.
The principal nodded.
Mr. Raichand's demeanor softened, and he turned his attention towards Maisha.
"Maisha!" he gently called.
I watched as my daughter approached him, her small frame appearing even more delicate in the presence of this towering figure.
Mr. Raichand, in all his grandeur, knelt down, enveloping Maisha in a warm, protective embrace. I could see the fear and confusion in her eyes slowly giving way to a sense of security.
He gently asked, "Baby, why did you do that?"
Maisha quivered as she spoke, her small voice trembling with emotion, "Superman, she was saying that I am a bad girl, that's why I don't have a papa."
What?
My heart immediately ached for my daughter after hearing her words, and tears welled up in my eyes.
I couldn't help but turn my gaze toward the girl, wondering how a mere four-year-old could have such a vicious tongue.
Maisha's trembling voice continued, "Superman, she said bad things about me and Mamma...."
I could sense Mr. Raichand's growing anger as his jaw tensed and his eyes flashed with intensity.
Without hesitation, he called his driver and instructed, "Take Maisha outside, ensure she's comfortable."
Once Maisha was safely out of the room, Mr. Raichand turned his attention to the woman whose daughter had made those hurtful remarks.
His voice, firm and stern, cut through the tension in the room. "Madam, do you realize the emotional damage your words have caused to a child?"
The woman, shocked upon learning the truth and clearly fearful of Mr. Raichand's demeanor, stammered, "I... I didn't know..."
He interrupted her firmly, his voice carrying an undeniable authority, "Words have consequences, especially when directed at a child. You should be ashamed of your daughter's behavior. You were pointing fingers at our girl and questioning her mother's upbringing, and now what should we do? Your child's actions are far more vicious than ours. You were asking for Maisha to be removed from school? Should we now ask the same for your daughter?"
The girl's mother shook her head in a reluctant acknowledgment.
He then turned to the principal, his tone remaining equally serious, "And as for you, Ma'am, it is your responsibility to ensure the well-being of every student in this school. Incidents like this should never occur under your watch. Bullying of any kind is deplorable. It's not Maisha's or her mother's fault that her father is not with her. I expect this behavior to be addressed and for it not to be repeated. If Maisha suffers any further harm, the consequences may not be favorable."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of his words resonating deeply with those present.
Realizing the gravity of her actions, the woman offered a sincere apology. The principal also expressed her regret for the incident and assured us of appropriate action being taken to ensure that such incidents would not be repeated.
As we stepped out of the office, Maisha came running towards us. It was dismissal time, and we took her with us.
In the car, I sat in the backseat with Maisha, hugging my daughter as tears streamed down my face.
My heart ached for my daughter, for the hurtful words she had been subjected to about a father she had properly never met.
As a mother, I had always strived to shield Maisha from the pain of losing her father, but now it seemed that the world outside was determined to remind her of that loss. I couldn't bear the thought of witnessing the innocence in her eyes being replaced by confusion and sadness, just as I had seen today.
She lovingly wiped away my tears.
"Are you angry at me, Mamma?" she asked, her innocent eyes searching for reassurance.
I shook my head. "No, sweetheart."
Maisha immediately turned to Mr. Raichand. "Superman, are you angry?"
He smiled warmly. "No, baby. I'm not angry."
My daughter, with her innocent enthusiasm, then asked, "Then, can I get some ice cream, Superman?"
"Of course," he replied with a warm smile.
The driver and Maisha went to buy her an ice cream while Mr. Raichand and I stayed in the car.
He turned to look at me and reassured me, saying, "Don't worry, Anisha, everything will be alright."
I looked at him with gratitude and expressed, "Thank you for today, sir."
As always, he ignored my words, offering neither a response nor a nod, his attention seemingly focused on the road ahead.
Maisha soon came. Mr. Raichand then turned to her and asked, "Didn't you bring one for your mamma?"
I shook my head, "I don't want one."
Maisha relished her ice cream, sharing stories and laughter with Mr. Raichand.
As I watched the two of them, I couldn't help but reflect on the significant role he had played in Maisha's upbringing, from that moment to the present. His unwavering support and kindness had been a constant source of strength for both of us, and I felt a deep sense of gratitude for his presence in our lives.
Atharva Raichand, the enigmatic man who had become a constant presence in our lives.
Despite his stern demeanor, which often intimidated not just me but hundreds of people around, my tiny daughter had effortlessly wrapped him around her tiny fingers.
It was a testament to the genuine connection they shared, a bond that brought a smile to my face and filled my heart with warmth.
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Here comes the update!
Sorry for the long delay, I'll try to be regular with the updates from now on.
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See you in the next chapter.