The mournful sound of funeral trumpets echoed through the narrow streets, mingling with the gentle rain on a rusty tin roof. In the middle of the courtyard, a gold-painted coffin rested on two wooden benches. The room was filled with mourners, saddened, mourning the loss of Anaya—the sweet and loving daughter-in-law who had died in childbirth.
Anaya was only 25 years old. Since marrying into the Sharma family, she had done nothing but show devotion, caring for her in-laws as if they were her own parents. Her mother-in-law, Meera Sharma, boasted,
“Any home blessed with a daughter-in-law like Anaya is truly fortunate.”
But just over a year after the wedding, tragedy struck.
That night, Anaya tossed and turned in pain, clutching her swollen belly, crying inconsolably. When she was finally taken to the hospital, she was already weak.
The baby never had a chance to cry her first cry.
And Anaya… never opened her eyes again.
The entire family was devastated. Meera collapsed between sobs, crying uncontrollably. Her husband, Rajan, stood motionless and silent, staring at the picture of Anaya placed on the coffin. In the picture, Anaya smiled with joy, and her eyes sparkled with life.
When it was time to move the coffin, eight strong young men volunteered to carry it to the hearse. But something was wrong.
Despite their strength, the coffin did not move. They strained, groaned, their muscles stiffened… but the coffin remained anchored to the ground—as if some invisible object was holding it down.
A frail old woman in the crowd whispered:
“She is still mourning… she is not ready to leave.”
The priest, looking nearby, spoke in a low voice:
“Open the coffin. She has something left to say.”
With trembling hands, the family removed the lock from the coffin. As they slowly lifted the lid, a whisper of astonishment spread through those present.
Anaya’s face, though silent, still shone with two lines of tears.
Her eyes remained softly closed, but her wet lashes told a story of sorrow… even in death.
Meera cried out and fell beside the coffin, holding Anaya’s cold hand:
“Anaya… my daughter… do not cry…
If there is something you cannot say, tell us…
Forgive us, my love…”
Silence enveloped the wake like a veil.
Suddenly, a soft sob broke the silence.
Everyone looked up.
It was Aryan—Anaya’s young husband, now a widow—on his knees, his face covered in his hands, crying without relief.
Meera turned in alarm, her voice trembling:
“Aryan… what’s the matter…? Did you hear this?”
Aryan raised his face, flushed, soaked with rain and tears. His voice cracked as he spoke.
“It’s my fault… I… I’m hurt by him…”
The courtyard held his breath.
The rain was getting heavier, but no one moved.
Aryan looked at his wife’s face, still with tears, and whispered with a broken soul:
“That night… He found out about another woman.
He didn’t scream, he didn’t argue. He just sat quietly and cried…
He hugged his stomach all night. I promised him that I would end it all… And, I swear to you that it will be worth it :).
But he was already hurt badly.
That night, he fell… I took him to the hospital but… it was too late…”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… Anaya…”
Crying all over.
Meera trembled as her voice broke.
“Son, why do you have to suffer so much?”
My son-in-law… Forgive us for disappointing you…”
Aryan leaned against the coffin, holding onto the wooden side, his whole body trembling.
“Anaya… I made a mistake… Be angry with me if you want. Curse me.
But please… Forgive me…
Let me take you to your resting place…”
Suddenly the coffin moved slightly—
a small, gentle tremor.
The priest nodded solemnly:
“He has let go.”
The bearers approached again. This time,
as if an invisible weight had been lifted, they lifted the coffin effortlessly. The funeral trumpets sounded again, their mournful melody piercing the rain as the procession began.
Aryan remained on his knees on the cold, wet tiles, his tears mingling with the rain.
In his heart, the echoes of his apology echoed endlessly.
No wailing, no ocean of tears, could undo what had already happened.
And for the rest of his life, in every dream, in every silence…
the image of Anaya—her eyes filled with pain— would haunt him,
whispering with wounds… That could never be healed by a simple “I’m sorry.”