Chapter 12: Shadows of Loss
Life had settled into a rhythm for Niyati, but the city and her responsibilities never slowed. Every morning she woke before sunrise, offering her silent prayers, and every evening, after a long day at the office, she returned home with the same energy and cheer that inspired her employees. The world saw her as a woman who had conquered heartbreak and built resilience brick by brick, someone who carried hope like a lantern in the dark. Yet, tonight was different.
As she opened the door, a wave of worry hit her like an unexpected storm. Something felt wrong, eerily quiet, as if the walls of her house carried a heavy silence. Her mother lay in bed, pale and shivering, wrapped in a blanket that seemed too thin against the weight of her weakness. Her father sat beside her, holding her hand, his face etched with lines of concern that made him look years older in an instant.
Niyati’s heart clenched as she rushed toward them, fear tightening around her chest.
“Mumma! Papa! What happened? Are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling as she knelt by the bed, her hands cold and shaking.
Her mother tried to smile, weakly raising her hand as if to reassure her daughter.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine… just a little fever.”
But Niyati could see the truth in her mother’s eyes — exhaustion, weakness, and pain that no words could disguise. Those eyes, which had always been a reflection of strength and love, now carried the fragility of life itself. In that instant, memories of her brother’s sudden accident and passing came crashing back, like wounds reopened. The fear of losing her family again gripped her tightly. She couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to them, not now, not ever.
Immediately, Niyati called the family doctor, her voice urgent and commanding. Within minutes she was arranging everything, refusing to let fear paralyze her. She insisted on hospital care, leaving no room for hesitation. Her mother was admitted for dengue, but complications arose, making treatment difficult.
The hospital corridors became Niyati’s second home. She stayed by her mother’s side day and night, monitoring every symptom, reminding her to drink water, coaxing her to eat, wiping her forehead, and whispering prayers under her breath. Her heart battled between hope and dread with every flicker of the monitor screen. Each passing day brought anxiety, sleepless nights, and growing helplessness, but Niyati never left her side. She held her father’s hand whenever he faltered, becoming both a daughter and a pillar for him.
Despite all efforts, fate had other plans. After a week of treatment, her mother’s health deteriorated. Machines beeped steadily, but life seemed to slip away with each labored breath. Niyati held her hand tightly, pressing her forehead against it, tears streaming down her face uncontrollably. Her father wept silently beside her, the man who once stood like a mountain now broken into fragments.
The doctor’s words came gently but harshly, piercing the fragile bubble of hope. Her mother could not be saved.
The hospital room seemed to collapse around her. The bright white walls felt suffocating, the fluorescent lights suddenly too harsh, too cruel. Niyati’s heart shattered into pieces, her world tilting on its axis once more. The girl who had survived loss before now faced the unbearable weight of losing her mother. The warmth, guidance, and unconditional love that had been her safe haven were gone.
For days, Niyati barely ate, barely slept. She wandered through the house, where every corner carried her mother’s presence — the aroma of her cooking still lingering in the kitchen, her soft sarees hanging in the wardrobe, the sound of her voice echoing in Niyati’s memory. She watched her father, who was now more silent and broken than ever, his eyes hollow, his soul wounded. She felt the crushing reality of life — that no amount of strength, no wealth, no prayers could shield her from every heartbreak.
Yet, amidst the pain, Niyati made a silent vow. Sitting at the edge of her bed one night, her mother’s photo in her hands, she whispered: she would honor her mother’s love by living with courage, by protecting her father, by continuing to pursue her dreams. She promised to transform her grief into strength, to carry forward the values her mother had instilled — kindness, patience, and resilience.
Her mother’s death left a void that could never be filled, but it also ignited a new kind of resilience. Niyati realized that life was fragile and unpredictable, like a candle flickering in the wind, but she had the power to keep moving forward. She would grieve, she would ache, but she would also rise. Because that was what her mother would have wanted — for her daughter to be strong, determined, and unyielding in the face of adversity.
By the time she left the hospital, Niyati’s face was wet with tears, her steps heavy with sorrow. Yet somewhere deep inside, a quiet fire burned — a flame of promise to herself, to her father, and to her mother’s memory. She would continue to fight, to live, and to shine, no matter how dark the shadows of loss grew around her.
