The Day Silence Replaced Her Voice

I never imagined silence could be so loud.

It was a Thursday afternoon—the kind of day you forget before it’s even over. The sun peeked out between the clouds like it couldn’t decide whether to shine or hide. She had been sleeping more often those days, her voice growing thinner, softer—like a fading radio station in the background of life.

But even then, I never thought the silence would come so suddenly. So permanently.

Her name was Ammi.

To the world, she was a woman like any other—gentle, patient, resilient. But to me, she was the rhythm of my days. Her voice, once a constant comfort in our home, had a way of making ordinary things feel sacred. Whether she was humming a tune while cooking or calling my name from the kitchen, her presence had a sound—a warmth—that filled every corner of our small house.

But on that Thursday, I walked into the living room and heard nothing.

No TV murmuring in the background.

No clinking of cups.

No soft hums from her favorite ghazals.

Just... nothing.

She sat in her usual spot by the window, the shawl wrapped tightly around her frail shoulders, her gaze fixed outside. I said her name softly—once, then again. Her lips moved slightly, but no words came out. Not even a whisper.

That was the moment silence replaced her voice.

---

At first, the doctors said it might be fatigue. Stress. Dehydration. But as the tests continued, their hopeful guesses turned into solemn nods. Some neurological condition they couldn’t quite name. Something rare. Something cruel.

She could still hear us. She could still respond with her eyes, with faint gestures. But the voice that used to wake me up, soothe my fears, and fill our home with love... was gone.

And it broke me.

---

I didn’t realize how much of life is built on sound until it disappeared. How much love is exchanged in tiny, meaningless words.

“Beta, roti garam kar doon?”

“Jaise kapray pehnay ho, sardiyan lagengi.”

“Aaj zara late aana, mehmaan aa rahay hain.”

Little things. Small phrases. Nothing poetic, nothing profound. But now, I would have traded my entire vocabulary just to hear one of them again.

I remember sitting with her that evening, trying to fill the silence myself. I talked and talked—about work, the news, the neighbor’s noisy generator. I even read her favorite poetry aloud. Faiz. Parveen Shakir. I watched her eyes sparkle faintly at familiar lines.

But she said nothing.

At night, the silence followed me to bed. It echoed louder than any scream. I had never known that absence had a sound. But it does. It's the creaking of a chair that no longer rocks. The stillness of a phone that never rings. The untouched teacup that stays full till evening.

---

Days passed. Then weeks.

We adapted to new ways of speaking. A touch on the arm meant yes. A blink, twice for no. A hand squeeze for “I remember.” I became fluent in her silence, reading between every gesture, every look. Still, some things remained unreachable. Questions I wanted to ask. Memories I wanted her to tell me again, just one more time.

Once, I found a letter she had written to my father years ago. A letter full of poetry, little jokes, quiet affection. I read it aloud to her, and she smiled, eyes wet. That smile was the loudest thing in the room.

---

On the 47th day of her silence, I woke up early. I had bought her fresh jasmine—her favorite. I wanted to surprise her, make tea, and sit with her as the city slowly stirred awake.

But when I entered the room, I knew instantly.

She was sitting just like the day the silence began—wrapped in her shawl, facing the window. The morning light made her look like a painting. Peaceful. Still.

Too still.

I walked over slowly, calling her name in a whisper I knew wouldn’t be answered.

And in that moment, a deeper silence began.

---

Grief is strange. It doesn’t always show up as tears or wailing. Sometimes, it’s just sitting in a room that feels too quiet. It’s boiling tea for two, out of habit. It’s still waiting for a voice you know will never return.

But over time, I learned that even in silence, she hadn’t truly left.

Her voice lives in my memory. In the way I stir tea. In the softness of my speech. In the lullabies I hum without realizing. In every instinct that tells me to be kind, to listen, to sit quietly with someone hurting.

Silence replaced her voice—but it didn’t erase her.

---

Now, when I sit by that same window, I sometimes imagine her beside me. I speak out loud, not expecting an answer, but not needing one either. I just talk.

And in those moments, I feel her the most.

Not in the words.

But in the quiet comfort between them.