⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
I sat on the couch with Tara nestled against my chest, her thumb in her mouth and her big watery eyes blinking slowly, trying not to cry again.
She’d been at it for over an hour.
Crying. Wailing.
The moment I stepped in from the office, Lata kaki had rushed toward me in panic. “Beta, Ritvika bahar gayi hai… subah hi. Boli thi kuch kaam hai jaa rahi hai, par phone ab bandh aa raha hai… aur Tara bas ro rahi hai.”
(She told me she’s going somewhere in the morning… but now her phone is off and Tara has been crying non-stop.)
I tried not to shout. I tried to stay composed. But even after informing, who disappears for hours with their phone switched off, leaving a crying child behind?
It’s the time now.
I looked down at the little girl curled into me, her warm cheek resting against my collarbone.
“Mumma… thaha dayi…”
(Mumma… where did she go?)
Her soft voice cracked as she mumbled again, her thumb falling from her lips.
I closed my eyes.
Why would she leave her behind if she was really going to the ……..?
Couldn’t she take Tara along?
Couldn’t she at least check in?
Is this some pattern? First she hides her past. Then, lies. Then she leaves Tara behind.
Or maybe she isn’t lying. Maybe… she’s just careless. Or worse — selfish.
What if she’s meeting someone else?
The thought had rooted in my brain now, and no matter how many times I shook my head, it refused to leave.
Tara squirmed in my arms. I adjusted her gently.
I had seen her cry before — tantrums, tiny baby fits — but today was different.
Today, it was that quiet cry. The one that seeps into your soul and sits there, heavy and aching.
“Mumma…?” she whispered again.
I took a long breath. "Tumhari mumma…," I muttered, “kabhi bhi aa sakti hain ya… shayad nahi bhi.”
(Your mumma… might come back anytime… or maybe not.)
Even I hated the bitterness in my voice.
And yet, I couldn’t stop it.
She left you, Tara. That’s what I saw. That’s what this looks like.
“Thaka”
(Tired…)
Tara murmured again and reached her arms up to me like she wanted to melt inside my chest. I hugged her close. Her eyes shut slowly.
I should be working.
I should be at peace.
Instead, I’m sitting here, babysitting, trying to make sense of a woman who continues to confuse the hell out of me.
Maybe she’s not bad.
Maybe she is.
Or maybe…
I just can’t read her anymore.
And the scariest part?
I’m starting to care.
The clock had just struck 4 PM when the front door creaked open.
Ritvika stepped in slowly, her dupatta clutched tightly in her fist, her shoulders visibly drooped. She looked pale — not just from fatigue but from something deeper… like she was carrying a storm inside.
Her eyes scanned the living room, and in the next second, Vidyut stormed in from the hallway. His face was clouded with fury.
“Where the hell were you?” he asked, his voice sharp, each word laced with restrained rage.
Ritvika didn’t flinch, but her lips quivered. She opened her mouth, but no words came. She didn’t want to lie — she wouldn’t. But she also wouldn’t speak of the hospital. Not now. Not when her world already felt like it was crumbling.
“I had… I had some work,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.
Vidyut scoffed, taking a few steps forward, his hands clenched by his sides.
“Work? Again? You left your daughter crying like hell. Do you even care about her or not?”
Those words struck harder than a slap. Ritvika took a shaky breath, blinking rapidly.
“Lata kaki knew I was…” she whispered, but that only made Vidyut angrier.
“Yeah? And next time you’ll inform the neighbours too? you’ve disappeared without her. Maybe you’re not as innocent as you act.” His voice dipped lower, dangerous. “Who were you meeting? Your… lover?”
Her breath hitched. Her hand instinctively grabbed the edge of the couch for support.
There it was again — the sharp pain in her chest, like someone had pressed a weight against it. Her heartbeat was irregular, her vision blurred just for a moment.
She closed her eyes and steadied herself.
“I wasn’t meeting anyone,” she managed to say, firm but not loud. Her voice was breaking but true.
But Vidyut wasn’t looking at her anymore — his anger clouded everything.
“You know what I think?” he hissed, stepping closer. “You don’t care. Neither for this house, nor for that child. You’re just acting. And trust me, I’ve seen enough masks in my life to know when someone’s hiding something.”
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her legs felt weak, her palms slightly trembled, and a strange tightness lingered in her upper back. But she didn’t show it.
She just stood still, as calm as possible.
On the couch, Tara noticed her mother and immediately scrambled off Lata kaki’s lap.
“Mummaaaaa!” she squealed in her baby voice, running toward Ritvika.
Ritvika instantly tried to bend down and take her in her arms — but the moment she did, a stabbing pain shot across her chest.
She winced.
Her breath caught.
She almost staggered — but steadied herself, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back the whimper. She couldn’t let Tara see anything.
With tremendous effort, she finally managed to lift her up. Tara clung to her neck as if she’d found her whole world again.
Holding her daughter against her heart gave Ritvika the strength to breathe through the pain.
“Aap kahaa dayi thi?” (Where did you go?) Tara asked, softly tugging her mangalsutra.
Ritvika kissed her temple, her arms slightly trembling.
“Mumma yahi thi, baby. Bas thoda kaam tha.”
(Mumma was just here, sweetheart. Just had some work.)
Vidyut watched from the side. Something in that moment made his jaw clench tighter. Her tears were real. Her fatigue wasn’t fake. Yet he couldn’t shake the storm inside him — not until he had answers.
But Ritvika was done for today. She gently stood with Tara in her arms and walked past him… silently… slowly… without another word.
It was past midnight.
Again.
But this night felt heavier… colder. The kind of night that doesn’t simply pass — it stays… it lingers in the chest long after the clock ticks on.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Tara’s sleeping face. Her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm. Her hand curled against her cheek. Peaceful. Innocent.
My baby.
My everything.
Tears welled up before I could stop them.
“I’m trying, betu… I’m trying so hard.”
Vidyut hadn’t come in the room even tonight. And maybe… I didn’t expect him to. The rage between us was still thick in the air, like a wall neither of us could scale. But what hurt most wasn’t his silence.
It was that even after everything… I still couldn’t blame him.
Because I was the one hiding the truth.
Because I was the one living on borrowed time.
My hand reached out and touched my side drawer. Slowly, I pulled it open and brought out a plain notebook — new, untouched. I had bought it weeks ago, not knowing why.
But now I knew.
I opened the first page. My fingers trembled.
“Tara,” I wrote in shaky letters, “if one day you ever open this… and I’m not around, please know your mumma loved you more than her own life.”
And that was it.
The floodgates broke. I wept silently — the kind of weeping that doesn’t shake your body… but empties your soul.
Tears dropped on the paper. I wiped them away before they could smear the ink.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the kind of life you deserved. But I promise, I fought. Every single day… I fought for you. And even now, if I have some time left — it’s all yours. Always yours.”
I closed the book slowly, holding it close to my chest like it was her.
My little Tara…
I got up to lie down — something I dreaded these days.
The moment I tried to straighten my back on the bed, an unfamiliar pain tightened around my ribs. The medicines — they made me dizzy, nauseated… and yet, sleep never came easy. Because sleep felt like giving in. Sleep felt like surrendering.
But I couldn’t surrender.
Not yet.
My head spun. My breath was shallow. I turned sideways, holding my stomach, blinking away the darkness that crept into the corners of my vision.
It was happening again — the pressure, the strange tightening in the chest, the burning in the throat. But I couldn’t scream. I didn’t want to wake her up.
So I lay there, biting my lip until it bled… waiting for it to pass.
Because that’s what life had become.
Waiting.
Hiding.
Fighting… silently.
But for how long?
I didn’t know.
All I knew… was that I couldn’t leave without leaving a piece of me behind for my daughter.
Because if death ever stood at my doorstep…
Tara would never feel motherless.
Not as long as these words reached her.
The room was silent, yet my head was loud.
Too loud.
Tara shifted a little beside me, her soft fingers curling around the blanket in sleep. She was warm — safe. For now.
But what about tomorrow?
I’ve made all the lists in my head.
The things she needs for school.
Her favorite rhymes.
How she only eats mangoes if I remove the skin.
The way she calls water — “mumm.”
The way she claps when birds fly by.
The way she hides behind me when she’s scared.
No one else will know these little things.
No one else will ever love her like I do.
A tear escaped before I could stop it.
“I’m sorry, betu,” I whispered brokenly, pressing my lips against her tiny hand, “Your mumma… she’s trying. I know it doesn’t look like much, but I swear, I’m trying.”
And then the thought hit me like a slap.
What if… I’m just not enough?
What if she grows up thinking her mother was a coward… a weak woman… someone who just gave up?
Would she hate me for leaving her behind?
Would she blame me for not fighting harder?
Am I already failing?
A sob crawled up my throat, but I swallowed it.
Because I couldn’t afford to cry. I couldn’t even afford to feel.
All I could do was keep breathing, keep pretending.
Pretending to be strong.
Pretending I’ll live long enough to raise her.
Pretending everything will be okay.
But in the corners of my mind — a truth crept in quietly.
I might not survive this.
And that truth destroyed me.
“I don’t want to die…” I whispered to no one, “I don’t want to leave her alone. She has no one. No one.”
My fingers gripped the diary again. I opened to the second page. My handwriting was shaky, but I didn’t care.
“Tara… if there comes a day where your mumma isn’t around to braid your hair or pack your lunchbox...I want you to look in the mirror and know — you were never the reason I gave up.
You were the only reason I kept going.”
The ink blurred.
“If I could, I would have given you the world, betu.
But all I have… is this love.
And it’s yours.
Always yours.”
My hand stilled above the paper…
A trembling, broken pause.
Because suddenly, the image came back to me — raw and vivid.
This evening.
When Tara squealed, “Mummaa!”
And ran towards me…
And I… I bent down to pick her up like I always do.
But this time —
My chest screamed.
A dull, sharp ache that travelled to my back. My arms almost gave up. My legs wobbled. My vision spun for a second too long.
And I still forced a smile — because Tara was watching.
I picked her up.
Because I had to.
Because I couldn’t let her see me weak.
But I knew it.
I felt it.
My body… it’s slipping away from me.
I blinked at the diary. The words I’d just written were starting to blur, not because of my eyes — but because of the thousand thoughts crashing against each other in my mind.
I’m not strong enough.
What kind of mother… can’t even lift her daughter in her arms?
That’s what mothers are supposed to do, right?
Pick them up when they fall.
Rock them to sleep.
Hold them when they’re scared.
And me?
I could barely breathe while holding her today.
What if tomorrow I collapse while carrying her?
What if she gets hurt because of me?
What if one day… she stretches her arms to me — and I can’t reach back?
A single sob escaped me.
“I’m not enough…” I whispered into the silence.
“Tara deserves better. A stronger mother. A healthier mother. A mother who doesn’t take medicines like vitamins, who doesn’t cry behind closed doors, who doesn’t write goodbyes in a diary at night.”
I pressed my hand to my chest. The pain was faint now, but it lingered. A reminder.
A countdown.
I closed the diary, hugged it to my chest, and curled beside Tara — as close as I could, without waking her.
Her breath was warm against my skin. Gentle. Trusting.
And that trust?
It killed me.
Because I wasn’t sure… how much longer I could live up to it.
“Moderate.”
That’s the word he used.
Not mild. Not critical. Just… moderate.
But what does moderate mean when your own heart is giving up on you?
When every breath takes effort, and even standing feels like a task?
The moment I stepped out of the hospital today, holding those crumpled prescriptions and a small paper bag of medicines, I felt like something inside me snapped.
The pile of medicines he listed…
They weren’t just names — they were weeks of survival, price-tagged with hope.
I had managed to buy a few for now.
Just for now.
But now… my wallet is empty. My bank balance says 29 rupees. That’s it.
No savings. No safety net. No family.
And Tara…
I looked at her — curled up in the blanket, hugging her soft toy, drooling slightly from the corner of her mouth.
Two years old. So tiny. So unaware.
How will I raise her, God?
How will I manage her food, her clothes, her school, her smile… if I can’t even afford to keep myself alive?
…….
I pressed my forehead against the cold wall of the bathroom.
My knees trembled. My throat felt tight.
“Why, God?” I whispered.
“Why me, fine… punish me. But not her. Please not her.”
“She’s just two… she didn’t ask for any of this. Not a broken family. Not a sick mother. Not a life built on someone’s charity.”
“What’s her fault?”
I didn’t realize when the tears started falling again.
Warm and silent.
The kind that don’t make a sound — but burn you from inside.
What if something happens to me?
I clutched my stomach, curling inwards — the pain in my chest intensifying. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything.
God, please.
Let me live.
If not for me, then for her.
Just long enough… until she doesn’t need me to breathe for her.
I came back to the room and saw Tara lying there… peaceful, soft breaths, unaware of the storm her mother was drowning in.
I didn’t waste a second.
I bent down and hugged her tightly to my chest, pressing her warm little body against mine like I could shield her from everything — the disease, the world, even fate.
I was scared to lose her. Terrified.
I tried to tuck her blanket up properly, but my hands were trembling. Even that small effort felt like moving a mountain.
My body was too exhausted — the weight of the medicines, the thoughts, the fears, everything pulling me down.
But still…
I tucked her in.
Because I had to.
Because I wanted to.
Even if I’m breaking… I want to do everything for her.
I clutched her closer again, tears slipping quietly from my eyes.
The disease… Vidyut’s accusations… they were stabbing me from inside.
This isn’t the first time someone called me a liar. A manipulator. A woman with a past that defines her.
No one ever tried to ask. No one cared to know.
Today Vidyut’s words echoed in my ears like a cruel anthem.
“Did you murder your husband?”
“Were you cheating on him?”
“Was Tara even his daughter?”
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to break everything in this room and tell the universe that I’m not a bad person.
But…
I couldn’t.
I was too tired.
Too broken.
I want to fight. I want to stand up for myself.
But I can’t find my voice.
I tried to whisper… anything. Even just “Stop.”
But my lips refused to move, and my throat gave up.
I was silently crying, still holding Tara close, when…
I felt him.
His presence.
Vidyut had quietly entered the room.
I froze.
No… I can’t let him see me like this.
I quickly pulled the blanket over my face, curling sideways, my hand pressing against my mouth to suppress any sound that might escape.
He shouldn’t see me weak.
No one should.
Not even him.
It was almost past midnight by the time I finally returned to the room.
Work had kept me longer than I’d intended — or maybe I’d allowed it to.
I didn’t want to see her face.
Not after today.
Not after everything I said… everything I heard.
As I entered the room, I instinctively slowed my steps.
Something felt… off.
Not in a loud way — not in a chaotic way.
In a quiet, unsettling way.
The room was dimly lit.
Tara was tucked in, almost buried under her soft blanket.
And beside her… Ritvika lay curled up, wrapped in the same blanket, her back to me.
I frowned.
My anger hadn’t left me.
In fact, it rose again seeing her.
How dare she?
How dare she leave the house without informing properly? How dare she lie?
But even in that moment of irritation, my eyes couldn’t stop drifting to the child.
Tara.
Fast asleep. Tired, clearly.
And I don’t know why… but I felt… something.
A strange weight in my chest.
Was it guilt?
No.
It couldn’t be.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
But then… why did I care?
Why did I rush home the moment Lata kaki called?
Why did I skip my meeting without a second thought?
Was it… humanity?
Was it just basic human decency?
Yes.
That must be it.
That’s all this is.
I looked at Ritvika again. She hadn’t moved once.
Not a single twitch.
Was she asleep?
Or was she avoiding me?
A part of me wanted to ask.
To speak.
To… maybe clear things.
But just when I took a step forward—
her words from earlier came crashing back.
"I'm not a murderer"
"I didn't went to meet someone"
And… that other woman’s voice echoed louder in my head:
"She snatched my son. That bad omen and her daughter—"
What if she really did?
What if all of this innocence… is just another game?
What if she does have a lover?
And Tara…?
I clenched my jaw.
No.
There was no point in talking.
What would I even say?
I let out a silent sigh, walked to the couch, and sat down heavily.
Sleep was miles away.
So was peace.
Two days later.
The house was quiet that morning.
Vidyut had left early for office. He hadn’t spoken much in the past two days — not a word more than required. Not a look that lingered longer than necessary.
And inside the room… Ritvika sat with her back resting against the headboard, her eyes dull, lips pale, and breaths uneven.
Tara was playing beside her — a soft giggle, some babbling, tiny feet tapping on the mattress.
Her dolls lay scattered across the bed, and she was trying to make her mother smile.
But Ritvika wasn’t responding.
She wanted to — God, she really wanted to.
But her body... was giving up.
The chest pain had been constant since yesterday.
But today — it was unbearable.
Like someone was pressing a stone against her chest, one that refused to lift.
Her limbs felt cold.
Palms sweaty.
The moment she blinked, she felt her head spinning.
She clutched her saree tightly near the stomach — trying to ease the pain with pressure.
Her medicine strip lay open on the nightstand — some pills already consumed, some still untouched.
The side effects were growing stronger.
She hadn’t eaten properly in two days.
Her body — was breaking.
Piece by piece.
Quietly.
Silently.
And Tara… her little sunshine… she noticed.
She stopped playing and stared at her mother’s lifeless eyes.
“Mumma… thelo” she tugged at Ritvika’s dupatta.
(mumma play)
Ritvika blinked slowly, tried to look down,but the world around her blurred.
“Mumma…” Tara called again, this time a bit louder, a bit more confused.
Her little fingers patted her mother’s arm.
“Mumma… bolo?” (Mumma… why aren’t you talking?)
Ritvika wanted to speak — just one word.
Just beta… or haan… or aaja…
But her throat dried up.
Her lips parted — and nothing came out.
Tara’s face changed.
The smile faded.
The sparkle dimmed.
She didn’t understand illness. But she understood silence.
And she hated silence.
She stood up on the bed and came closer to her mother’s face.
“Mummaaa…” she whimpered this time, clutching Ritvika’s cheeks.
“Mumma… chalo bollo… (Mumma, please say something…)”
But all Ritvika could do…
was close her eyes.
Just for a second.
Just to breathe through the pain.
Her hands trembling, she reached for the water glass — but it slipped. Crashed.
Tara got startled.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
But Ritvika didn’t want to scare her.
Ritvika’s head was pounding.
She blinked slowly, trying to open her eyes fully — Tara’s blurred little figure stood in front of her, voice quivering, hands frozen mid-air.
The broken glass lay scattered near the bed.
And Ritvika… she couldn’t bear the thought of Tara touching even a single sharp edge.
With trembling limbs, she pushed herself up.
Her hands gripped the bed for support as she stood — knees wobbling, chest burning, breaths shallow.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, like someone knocking from the inside — desperate to escape.
She bent forward. Just a little. Just enough to pick the glass.
But her vision…
It went dark.
A sharp spin.
A deafening silence.
Her body froze.
And then — collapsed.
“MUMMAAAA!!”
Tara’s scream cracked through the air.
She ran forward with her tiny feet, her little fingers shaking her mother’s cheeks.
“Mumma… utho… uthoo na…”
(Mumma… get up… please get up…)
“Mumma… tala hut… hut…!!”
(Mumma… Tara is hurt… hurt…!!)
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed loudly, her whole body shaking.
She didn’t know what to do — she just sat beside her mumma’s motionless body, crying, begging, pushing at her.
“Mummmaaa… no sleep… no seep… open eye… open eye…” she wailed.
But Ritvika… was unconscious.
Her chest moved slowly, unevenly.
The medicine side effects.
The weak heart.
The skipped meals.
The emotional stress.
It had all come crashing down.
And Tara… her baby… the little one who didn’t even know how to ask for help — was all alone in that room, hugging her mother, crying endlessly.
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