It has been twenty-six years since I entered widowhood.
Twenty-six long years… and still, loneliness has not ended.
It feels like it is sitting in every corner of my life, quietly breathing with me.
Yes, the courtyard of my house now has light again. Slowly, the darkness of sorrow is fading, and a soft hope is spreading like morning mist. Good days feel a little closer than before.
But still… something inside me has not settled yet.
It will take more time.
My eldest grandson was not even one year old when you left for work abroad. At that time, I somehow managed to survive. Life was difficult, but it moved forward.
My three daughters grew up and were married off with simple ceremonies. May God bless them. Now they live in their own homes, busy in their own lives, far away but settled.
I spent my entire life under borrowed roofs, always patient, always grateful, always adjusting.
But now things have changed.
My daughter-in-law wanted her own house. She is the daughter of a contractor, so she understands property, money, and ownership very well. She knows the value of every brick, every rupee, every decision.
She holds on to money tightly, as if it is the only thing that matters.
Every month, she carefully cuts our household expenses so she can put money aside for a house of her own.
Still, I am thankful. At least now she will have her own home. And maybe you can come back one day and see it too.
If I manage to save a few days from my responsibilities, I realize ten years have already passed since you left.
Now even my room understands my silence.
The walls seem to listen.
When I get tired of sitting or thinking, I lie down on the bed. Sometimes it feels like there is no difference between a bed and a grave, except for breathing.
Prayer does not remove loneliness. Holding prayer beads does not erase emptiness. Even when I try to stay strong, my knees remind me that age is catching up.
Strange heaviness lives inside me… and it does not leave.
Every day, I pray for your safety and return. I pray for blessings in your work and home. As I walk around, I even gently blow on my knees, as if asking God to give me a little relief.
O God… what should I do?
Winter is the only season that gives warning before coming and even shows signs before leaving. My cough starts and stops like an old rhythm I cannot control. I keep counting beads of prayer, but my breath feels short.
I feel weak, but I do not say anything.
The daughter-in-law is still sleeping. Breakfast will only be made when she wakes up.
If I take even a few grains of food for myself quietly, I feel hunger coming back stronger. This hidden sugar disease does not care about timing or weakness.
It does not understand anyone’s situation.
Yesterday, when she bought fruits for herself from the street vendor, I remembered the two guavas I had once bought for myself.
They were big, green, and shiny. They looked hard from the outside, but inside they were soft, red, and sweet.
I had hidden them carefully, thinking I would eat them later. But I never really got the chance.
Slowly, I pushed the blanket aside and looked through the slightly open door of my room.
Darkness was still fading from the courtyard. The iron gate in the center of the yard let in a thin line of morning light. It felt like dawn was slowly breaking into the house.
I wrapped my shawl tightly around myself and walked quietly toward the daughter-in-law’s room.
The kitchen is attached to her room. If I make even a small sound, she will wake up immediately. I know this well. In this house, even a mouse cannot enter without being noticed.
The children were sleeping. Their soft snoring filled the room like gentle music. Innocent sounds of deep sleep.
I felt a small smile on my face. Even in loneliness, children bring some softness into life.
I told myself, “Let me just find something small to eat.”
We had kept a small basket in the kitchen.
I reached up carefully and pulled it down from the shelf.
Inside were two old guavas.
They were still there… slightly forgotten.
But now they were not fresh anymore.
Small black spots had appeared on their skin, like warning signs of decay. I knew insects might already be inside.
Still, hunger is a strange thing. It makes even bad things look acceptable.
I held one guava in my hands and pressed it gently.
It felt soft in some places, but strange in others.
I broke it open.
And inside… small insects were moving.
Slowly.
Crawling.
I froze.
My hands shook.
I threw it away quickly, fear rising in my chest.
I opened the second guava with hesitation.
It was the same.
Insects inside again.
I stepped back in shock and dropped it too.
Now I was standing there, hungry and empty-handed.
My body was shaking slightly.
I looked around the kitchen helplessly.
Then I saw a few leftover pieces of bread from the children’s plates. Small, dry pieces, forgotten from earlier.
I picked them up quietly.
I sat down in silence and ate them slowly.
Each bite felt like swallowing patience itself.
Strangely, hunger calmed down a little after that.
Time passed.
The day slowly moved forward.
I wrapped my blanket again and started my prayer beads once more. The words of prayer moved through my lips automatically, like a habit I have carried for years.
While counting beads, I slowly felt sleepy.
My eyes were half closed when suddenly I heard a small sound.
A soft movement.
I opened my eyes.
My youngest grandson was standing near me.
He had climbed onto my legs without me noticing. In his small hands, he was holding a big, green guava.
Fresh.
Shiny.
Beautiful.
Just like the ones I had once bought for myself.
I looked at him quietly.
He smiled without reason, innocent and full of life.
That guava looked hard from outside… but I knew inside it would be red and soft.
I stared at it for a long time.
Something inside me broke softly.
It felt like even my body had become covered in spots of loneliness, just like the guavas.
And then I thought…
Maybe loneliness is also like a hidden insect.
You do not see it at first.
But slowly, it eats everything from inside.
And yet life continues.
Quietly.
Silently.
Like this house.
Like me.
Like time itself.
Thank you for reading.
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