A Hundred Years in Seven Lives

The aroma of cardamom and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the nervous energy that crackled between the two families. In the Sharma household, Mrs. Sharma paced the polished marble floors, adjusting the pleats of her silk saree for the tenth time. Her son, Mohan, was finally settling down, and the weight of tradition, the unspoken pressure of ensuring his happiness, pressed heavily on her. Across town, in the Iyer residence, similar anxieties played out. Mrs. Iyer fretted over the arrangements, ensuring every detail of the impending roka ceremony was perfect. Her daughter, Shalini, was a gem, and they wanted only the best for her.

A common relative, a seasoned matchmaker with a keen eye for compatibility, had suggested the alliance. Initially, both families were hesitant. The Sharmas were a family of successful businessmen, while the Iyers were renowned for their academic achievements. Yet, upon meeting, they found an unexpected harmony. There was a shared sense of values, a mutual respect, and an undeniable warmth that bridged the perceived differences.

The roka ceremony was a whirlwind of colour and sound. Garlands of marigolds adorned the entrance, the air filled with the rhythmic chanting of priests and the joyous melodies of shehnai music. Shalini, dressed in a vibrant silk saree, felt a flutter of nervousness as she sat beside Mohan, a quiet, thoughtful man with kind eyes and a gentle smile. It was a whirlwind of introductions, blessings, and the exchange of gifts. Yet, amidst the pomp and splendour, there was a genuine connection, a sense of two families coming together in celebration of a new beginning.

The wedding followed a few months later, a grand affair that lasted for days. Shalini, now Shalu, found herself navigating a new life in Pune, far from her family and the familiar comforts of home.

It was a daunting prospect, but Mohan’s presence was a constant source of reassurance. Pune became our canvas, a blank space where we began to paint our own story. It wasn't the elaborate ceremonies that defined our bond, but the simple acts of love that unfolded within the walls of our small flat.

I want to live for a hundred years with you. He’d say whenever he was happy. Mohan was a gem. There were these little things, seemingly insignificant in themselves, that wove a tapestry of love around my heart. Like the time he overheard me telling a friend I preferred to be called ‘Shalu’ rather than ‘Shalini’ by those I cared about. From that day forward, he never called me anything else. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about his attentiveness, his desire to truly know me.

He observed everything. He noticed how I craved hot rusk dunked in sweet, milky tea whenever I felt under the weather. So, one particularly dreary afternoon, when a sharp pain shot through my back, leaving me doubled over in discomfort, I found him at the door, laden with packets of my favourite rusk, a thermos of steaming tea, and a small, worried frown creasing his brow.

He spent the rest of the evening gently massaging my back until the pain subsided, the scent of warm rusk filling the air and his quiet presence a soothing balm against the discomfort. Another time, I twisted my ankle during a walk in the park. The sharp pain made me gasp, and I sank onto a nearby bench, unable to put any weight on my foot.

Mohan’s face creased with concern. He carefully examined my ankle, his touch surprisingly gentle as he probed for swelling. That night, he sat beside the bed, not just holding a hot water bottle against my ankle, but reading to me in a low, soothing voice until sleep finally claimed me. It wasn't just the physical comfort he offered, but the quiet reassurance in his eyes, the unspoken promise that he would always be there.

Honestly, even though ours was an arranged marriage, it felt like I’d known him for years. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a connection that transcended the formality of our initial meeting.

It was a feeling that started long before Pune, before the wedding, back on the crowded platform of the railway station, back then the world was different. There were no mobile phones, no instant messaging, no easy way to connect across distances. Our courtship, if you could call it that, was confined to stolen moments and whispered conversations. Every morning, we’d meet for five precious minutes at the bustling railway station before my train to work arrived. Those five minutes were our world, a small island of intimacy amidst the chaos of the platform. We’d sit on a worn wooden bench, sipping chai from earthen cups, sharing stories and dreams, our voices barely audible above the din of the arriving and departing trains.

I remember one particularly hectic morning when we were running late. I had to sprint across the platform, dodging hurried commuters and luggage carts, to catch my train, which was already pulling away. I barely had time to wave goodbye. The disappointment of not being able to say a proper farewell lingered with me throughout the day. But then, as I settled into my seat, a small girl approached me, holding a single, fragrant jasmine flower.

She pointed back towards the platform, her eyes wide with innocence. “This is for you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “That uncle gave it to me.” I looked back and saw Mohan standing there, a small smile playing on his lips. Even from a distance, I could feel the warmth of his gaze. In that moment, surrounded by the noise and bustle of the train station, I felt a profound sense of connection, a certainty that we were meant to be together.

There were countless other moments, small and seemingly insignificant, that solidified our bond. There were late-night work assignments when I’d struggle to wake up the next morning. Mohan, ever the attentive husband, would gently nudge me awake, just enough to check if I was alright, before whispering, “Go back to sleep, Shalu. I’ll take care of everything.” And he always did. When I finally emerged from my slumber, the dishes would be washed, breakfast would be ready, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee would fill the air.

And he always waited for me to have dinner, no matter how late I was. I’d constantly urge him to eat while the food was still hot, but he’d insist on waiting, his eyes filled with a gentle warmth that melted my heart.

Mohan was like a plant that needed the right conditions to bloom. He was reserved at first, a tightly closed bud. But my laughter was the sunshine, the warmth he needed. It coaxed him open, petal by petal, until his own laughter bloomed, a vibrant, joyous flower that filled the room with its fragrance. Our friends always said he was the life of the party.

But a few years ago, the laughter faded. It was a normal day, just like any other. We were having breakfast, planning our weekend trip to the nearby hills. Then, suddenly, Mohan clutched his head, his face contorted in pain. “I have a terrible headache,” he gasped, his voice strained, “and I feel very warm.” I’d never seen him in so much pain, so vulnerable.

We rushed him to the hospital, the journey a blur of fear and anxiety. The doctors’ diagnosis hit us like a thunderbolt, a brain aneurysm. He needed immediate surgery. I refused to give in to despair. I clung to the hope that everything would be alright, that Mohan would pull through.

But then, the doctors delivered the devastating news, even if the surgery was successful, Mohan would likely be in a vegetative state. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. I knew Mohan. I knew he wouldn’t want that, a life trapped within his own body, unable to communicate, unable to experience the world he loved so much. I knew it would be a silent suffering, a fate worse than death for a man who had lived his life with such vibrancy.

It was the hardest decision I've ever made. The weight of it settled deep inside me, a constant ache that never truly went away. I sat by his bedside, the sterile scent of the hospital room a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand in mine. His skin, usually vibrant and full of life, felt cold and clammy beneath my touch. Tears streamed down my face, blurring the already harsh fluorescent lights, each drop a tiny testament to the immense grief that threatened to engulf me.

I whispered to him, my voice a broken echo of the conversations we’d shared, the laughter that once filled our days now replaced by a desolate silence. I told him everything I needed to say, all the unspoken words that now clawed at my throat, desperate to be heard. I told him of my love, a love that transcended words, a bond that had woven itself into the very core of my being.

“I know you love me,” I choked out, my voice thick with unshed tears, “and you wouldn’t choose this. You’d never choose to leave me like this.” The unspoken “but” hung heavy in the air between us, a stark acknowledgement of the cruel hand fate had dealt. “But if you have to go,” I continued, my voice barely a whisper, “there must be a reason. A reason I can’t yet understand.”

Then, a thought, a chilling realisation pierced through the fog of my grief. It wasn't just about saying goodbye; it was about accepting a future without him, a future I couldn't even begin to comprehend. And in that moment of stark clarity, I made a promise, not just to him, but to myself. I would not let his absence define me. I would not let grief consume me, turning me into a hollow shell of my former self. I would live, truly live, for both of us, carrying his memory within me like a precious flame, a beacon guiding me through the darkness.

But there was another decision, a far more difficult one, a choice that felt both agonizing and strangely liberating. In the immediate aftermath of his passing, amidst the paperwork and the hushed condolences, the option of organ donation was presented. It was a clinical, almost detached conversation, yet it struck a chord deep within me. Mohan, with his boundless energy and his desire to give back to the world, would have wanted this. I knew it in my heart.

It was a strange form of bargaining with fate, a desperate attempt to salvage something, anything, from this devastating loss. I thought of his vibrant eyes, the way they would crinkle at the corners when he laughed. I imagined someone else seeing the world through those same eyes, experiencing the beauty he had so cherished. I thought of his strong heart, the heart that had beat in time with mine for so many years, now beating within another chest, giving life where there was once despair.

His eyes, his kidneys, his liver, even his skin and blood vessels they became gifts, fragments of Mohan scattered across the world, offering a second chance to seven different individuals. It was a macabre kind of immortality, a way for him to live on, not in the way he had once dreamed, but in a way that was perhaps even more profound.

They received pieces of him, tangible parts of the man I loved. But what they didn't receive, what they couldn't possibly understand, was the intangible essence of Mohan… a warmth, a laugh, a love that was ours alone.

That part remained with me, locked within my heart, a constant reminder of what I had lost, and what I had chosen to give. Because love, I realised, was not just about holding on. Sometimes, it was about letting go, even when it felt like tearing yourself apart.