Forgiveness Without Return: We Still Belong to Silence

By Sweta Mishra

Chapter One: The Photograph

The city outside my window never sleeps.

But tonight, it feels like even the lights of Bangalore can’t reach the corners of my heart.

I sit on the floor of my apartment, back against the bed, a cup of tea gone cold beside me.

The hum of distant traffic fills the silence I’ve grown used to. Papers from today’s audit files

lie scattered across the table, but my mind isn’t there. My eyes rest on a photograph that

slipped out of an old diary — the edges slightly worn, the colours still bright enough to sting.

Aanya’s third birthday.

That smile... her little hands clutching the balloon, frosting on her cheek, her eyes lit up as if

she’d swallowed a piece of the sun.

I trace the corner of the picture with my thumb. That night feels like a lifetime ago — yet it’s

the night that divided my life into before and after.

It was supposed to be a simple celebration.

We had gathered at my father’s flat in Ranchi — a place that smelled like sandalwood and

freshly made kheer. My brother’s flat was nearby, bigger, busier, but this one... this was

home. My father’s laughter echoed from the balcony, my mother’s voice rose from the

kitchen, and I remember thinking — it’s been a while since I’ve seen everyone this happy.

Aanya was twirling in her frilly pink dress, the kind that puffed when she spun. Her friends

from the colony had come, tiny shoes piled at the door, music playing softly in the

background. Vidhi — my sister-in-law — was running around with a paper crown, fixing

balloons, shouting instructions, laughing. She looked radiant that evening.

And when I entered, Aanya spotted me first.

“Bua!” she screamed, running toward me. Her tiny arms wrapped around my legs before I

could even kneel.

She smelled like strawberries and innocence.

I remember laughing, lifting her up, spinning her once. “My princess turned three!”

Her giggle was the sweetest thing I’d heard in weeks.

The night went on like a dream — dance, laughter, silly games. My mother even joined in for

musical chairs, pretending to trip and losing on purpose. For a brief moment, I felt like the

invisible distance between all of us had melted away.

But the thing about family is — the calm often comes before the storm.

After the guests left and the laughter faded, Aanya and Vidhi sat on the floor, unwrapping

gifts one by one. I helped her assemble a dollhouse I’d bought, and she looked at it like it

was magic.

“Bua, you stay here tonight, okay?” she asked, eyes wide.

I smiled. “We’ll see, my love.”

But something inside me was already uneasy.

It’s strange — how you can feel tension before it takes form.

Later, in the kitchen, words turned sharp.

A small argument — something trivial between me and my mother. I don’t even remember

how it started. Maybe about the cake, maybe about Aanya’s bedtime, or maybe something

deeper, something unspoken that finally found a voice.

Her tone turned accusing, and I snapped back.

Years of hurt — the little things that were never said but always felt — came rushing out of

me like a wave.

My voice trembled, not because I was weak, but because I’d held it in too long.

That’s when he walked in.

My brother.

I hadn’t spoken to him properly in months. Our relationship had become a series of polite

silences and forced small talk. When I saw him, I said, “Please... just stay out of this.”

But he didn’t.

Maybe he was trying to defend Ma. Maybe he was angry, too.

I turned to leave, and then — it happened.

A sudden blur.

A hand that struck before words could.

My own brother — the one whose wrist I’d once tied Rakhi on, whose childhood bruises I’d

patched up — hit me.

The world stopped.

My mother froze, her eyes wide in shock.

Vidhi rushed forward, her voice shaking, trying to hold him back.

And I... I just stood there. My cheek burned, but the pain wasn’t physical. It was deeper,

heavier, something that split me open from the inside.

My father came running upstairs, Aanya’s voice echoing faintly in the background —

innocent, unaware. He saw me, saw him, saw the silence that hung between us — and the

first words he said were not to ask what happened, but to blame me.

“You must have said something, Aarika. You always do.”

Something inside me shattered.

Not because of the slap — but because even after that, I was the one held guilty.

I remember walking to the balcony, my mother crying, my father angry, my brother pacing,

Vidhi standing still with tears in her eyes.

And in that moment, surrounded by the people who were supposed to love me the most, I

felt utterly... alone.

I stayed that night.

Not because I wanted to — but because I couldn’t find the strength to leave.

My mother came to my room later, her voice trembling. “Don’t take it to heart,” she said, as

if what had happened was a small misunderstanding, something to be swept under the rug.

I didn’t reply. I just stared at the ceiling until morning.

The next day, I packed my bag and left.

That was three years ago.

Since then, I’ve seen my parents a few times — they visit, we talk, we share polite smiles.

But with him — I haven’t spoken a word. Not even on festivals. Not even when Aanya

started school.

Some wounds don’t bleed anymore. They just live quietly inside you, like old tenants who

refuse to move out.

Back in my apartment, I place the photograph on my desk.

Aanya’s tiny face smiles back at me — frozen in a time when love still felt easy.

I open my diary. The ink of old entries has faded, but tonight I write anyway:

“I said harsh things that night. I wish I hadn’t. But those words were a reaction to wounds I

never deserved. To the silence I was forced to carry.

He struck me — the very hand that once promised protection, that I tied Rakhi on.

I forgave, I tried, and still, things worsened.

Now, I no longer wish to fix what was broken. I only wish to find peace within the cracks.”

I close the diary gently.

Outside, the city hums, unaware of the ache that lingers in one small apartment.

And for the first time in a long time, I whisper into the night —

“I’m not angry anymore.”

It’s not forgiveness I feel. It’s acceptance — quiet, imperfect, but enough to breathe again.

Chapter Two: The Night That Changed Everything

The morning after the storm was too quiet.

You know that kind of silence that follows chaos — heavy, unnatural, like even the walls are

afraid to breathe? That’s what the house felt like.

I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes swollen, cheek still faintly red where he’d hit

me. My mother entered with a tray of tea she didn’t really want to offer. She placed it on the

table, avoiding my eyes.

“Don’t cry anymore, Aarika,” she said softly. “He didn’t mean it.”

I wanted to ask — then who did?

But I didn’t. I’d learned by then that in our home, silence was easier to digest than truth.

Downstairs, I could hear Aanya’s voice — small, happy, untouched by the night before.

“Papa, see my dollhouse!” she squealed. And my father’s laughter followed — a sound that

had once made me feel safe but now stung like salt in an open wound.

It was strange. One night. One slap. And suddenly, the house I grew up in no longer felt like

mine.

I stayed for two more days.

Not because I wanted to — but because leaving immediately would’ve made me look guilty.

My brother didn’t speak to me. He avoided my eyes, walking past me like I was invisible.

Vidhi tried to speak once, whispering a small, “I’m sorry,” when no one was around. But

even she looked afraid — of words, of sides, of truth.

When I finally packed my bag, my mother stood at the door. “Call us when you reach,” she

said, as if I was just going for a short trip.

I nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. My father didn’t come to see me off.

I remember walking out with my suitcase and turning back once — not at them, but at the

window of the small room that used to be mine. The curtain moved slightly with the wind,

and for a second, I thought I saw the ghost of the girl I used to be — trusting, loud, and

endlessly forgiving.

On the train to Kolkata that evening, I cried quietly into my scarf.

People think pain makes you stronger. It doesn’t. Not at first. It makes you small. It makes

you question if you’re the problem.

My mind kept replaying everything — the look on his face, the sound of my father’s voice,

my mother’s trembling silence. I couldn’t stop hearing it.

And in between those sharp memories, my mind betrayed me — wandering back to when

we were children.

I remembered him holding my hand on the first day of school because I was too scared to go

alone.

I remembered the time he got into a fight with a boy who made me cry in the park.

I remembered us saving our pocket money to buy Ma a saree one Mother’s Day.

I remembered the same hand that had once wiped my tears — turning against me.

That’s what hurt the most. Not the slap. But the death of something that was once sacred.

The weeks that followed were a blur.

I threw myself into work — clients, reports, deadlines — anything to keep my mind busy. I

was a CA, after all. I knew how to balance numbers.

Balancing emotions, however, was an entirely different skill.

My parents called sometimes. Our conversations were short, safe, rehearsed. “How’s work?”

“Are you eating properly?” “When are you visiting next?”

No one mentioned that night.

It was like we had collectively agreed to erase it from history.

But silence doesn’t erase pain. It just buries it deeper.

I moved to Bangalore six months later.

Officially, it was for a better opportunity — to start my own practice. Unofficially, it was to

breathe without feeling watched.

The day I left Ranchi, my father helped load my bags into the cab. He said, “Make us proud,”

and I almost laughed.

My brother wasn’t there.

Aanya was — standing near the gate, holding a soft toy I’d given her. “Bua, will you come to

my birthday?” she asked, eyes wide.

I didn’t know what to say. I just hugged her tightly, kissed her forehead, and whispered,

“Always, my love.”

But I never did.

That was three birthdays ago.

Bangalore became my fresh start.

I rented a small apartment — white walls, big windows, quiet neighbours. The kind of space

where I could rebuild myself from the ground up.

During the day, I worked relentlessly — clients, tax audits, consultations. I built a name, built

respect, built something that was mine.

But every night, when the city went quiet, the silence came back.

Some nights I would open that old photo album, look at Aanya’s smiling face, and wonder —

how can love and pain coexist so peacefully in one heart?

Once, about a year after I’d moved, my parents came to visit.

We had lunch together — small talk, laughter that didn’t reach the eyes, stories that avoided

all the wrong chapters. My father asked about business, my mother commented on how

independent I’d become.

At one point, she looked around the apartment and said softly, “You’ve done well, Aarika.”

And for a moment, I thought I saw pride in her eyes.

But then she added, “You should call your brother sometime.”

The air changed.

I smiled faintly, pretending I hadn’t heard.

They left that evening. The house was quiet again — but this time, it felt like the kind of

quiet I chose.

Sometimes I still think about that night.

Not with anger anymore.

With distance. Like watching an old movie, you once cried through but now just observe in

silence.

I’ve stopped asking why it happened.

Maybe some relationships are meant to be lessons, not lifelines.

Maybe forgiveness doesn’t always mean reconciliation.

There’s a strange peace that comes with letting go of the need for closure.

Because closure doesn’t always come in the form of an apology — sometimes, it comes

when you finally stop waiting for one.

Last week, I saw an old picture on social media — Aanya at a school function, dressed as a

butterfly. She looked taller, older, happier.

For a second, my eyes filled with tears. But they weren’t heavy anymore. Just... gentle.

I whispered her name, softly — “Aanya.”

The word felt like a prayer.

And that’s when I realized — healing doesn’t always look like forgiveness.

Sometimes it just looks like peace — a quiet room in Bangalore, a cup of tea gone cold, and

the knowledge that even after everything, my heart still beats without bitterness.

Chapter Three — The Homecoming That Wasn’t

SECTION ONE: THE ARRIVAL

The plane began its slow descent into Ranchi, cutting through clouds that looked softer than

my heart felt. I hadn’t been here in three years. Three long, unspoken years.

The seatbelt sign blinked on, and I stared out of the oval window — the same small town

that had once been everything, now looked like a memory I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch.

I thought time would make it easier, I wrote once in my journal, but all it did was wrap my

wounds in silence.

When the wheels touched the tarmac, a strange mix of warmth and weight settled in my

chest. The familiar smell of wet soil drifted through the glass as we rolled to a stop. Ranchi

air — crisp, earthy, unfiltered — just as I remembered.

I was here for Ankita’s engagement, an old school friend who had insisted, “Aarika, you have

to come. It won’t feel complete without you.”

So, I gave in. Told myself it was just two days. Told myself I was ready.

At the baggage belt, I scrolled through messages on my phone — my mother’s “Beta, I’ll

send the driver,” her excitement trying to sound casual.

And one unread message from an unsaved number.

I didn’t have to open it to know who it was from.

It was strange — how numbers, voices, and memories could stay engraved inside you no

matter how much you tried to delete them.

When I stepped out, the February sun felt gentle, almost kind. My father’s driver waved at

me from a distance, his face lighting up like I’d returned from a different country altogether.

“Madam, how are you?” he asked, taking my suitcase.

“I’m good, Ramesh bhaiya,” I replied with a small smile. I wasn’t.

The drive from the airport was quiet. Every lane carried a story — the tea stall near my old

coaching centre, the bakery where I’d celebrate every small win, the traffic signal that once

saw me racing to class with audit books in hand.

Now, it was all still. Like time had frozen, waiting for me to look back.

When we reached the house — my father’s flat — I hesitated before getting out. I could hear

laughter from the balcony. My mother’s voice. And a child’s giggle — unmistakably Aanya’s.

The moment she saw me, she ran straight into my arms, her little pigtails flying.

“Buaaaa!” she screamed, clutching me tight.

And just like that, all my walls cracked a little.

She had grown taller, prettier — her eyes still held the same sparkle, that innocent love

untouched by the weight adults carry.

“I missed you so much!” she said, breathless. “Tomorrow’s my birthday! You’ll come, na?

Please Bua, please stay!”

I froze. My flight back was booked for tomorrow evening. I had planned everything — a

clean in and out. No old memories. No risk.

But one look at her — the way her small hand wrapped around mine — and my resolve

melted.

“Okay,” I said softly. “I’ll stay.”

Her squeal filled the air, echoing down the corridor.

My mother smiled from the doorway, her eyes moist. My father came out too, pretending

not to wipe the corner of his.

And for a brief moment, it almost felt like home again.

Almost.

It’s strange, I wrote that night in my diary, sitting by the same window I once studied beside,

how love makes you come back, even when reason tells you not to. Maybe it’s because love

doesn’t know how to quit — it only knows how to return.

But beneath that warmth, I felt it — the quiet tension, the unspoken presence of the two

people I hadn’t yet seen.

I knew they were here.

I knew tomorrow, I’d have to face them.

And no amount of calm or forgiveness could fully prepare me for that.

SECTION TWO — THE GATHERING

Morning came wrapped in music, laughter, and the faint smell of buttercream frosting.

It was Aanya’s sixth birthday, and the house felt alive again — balloons tied to the staircase

railing, ribbons fluttering near the curtains, plates clinking as my mother hurried between

the kitchen and the living room.

I woke up early, not because of excitement, but because I couldn’t sleep. The walls felt too

familiar, too full of echoes. The mirror still reflected the same girl — older maybe, wiser, but

still someone who flinched when her past brushed against her skin.

I stepped into the living room, wearing a soft blue kurta Aanya had once called “princess

colour.”

Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Bua! Come see my cake!” she said, dragging me by the hand. “Papa got it shaped like a

rainbow!”

That word — Papa — made me pause for a fraction.

And then I saw him.

He was standing by the dining table, giving instructions to the decorator, sleeves rolled up,

like always. The same brother I had once tied rakhi to, the same one whose laughter had

filled half my childhood.

And yet, when his eyes met mine, the air between us froze.

He gave a small nod. Polite. Formal.

The kind of gesture you give to a neighbour, not blood.

My sister-in-law joined in soon after, her tone cheerful, her smile stretched — the kind of

smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

“Aarika, you came! So nice to see you after so long,” she said, as if those years hadn’t been

carved by silence.

I smiled back — the kind of smile you wear for peace, not comfort.

For the next few hours, everything went on as if the world hadn’t cracked once.

Guests arrived. Children laughed. Aanya ran around with her friends.

I helped my mother serve snacks, laughed at jokes that barely landed, posed for a few

pictures.

But behind every moment, I could feel their eyes — his, hers — like ghosts in the

background.

Polite words. Guarded spaces.

The kind of peace that trembles just before it breaks.

“You’ve changed, Aarika,” my mother said quietly while arranging the plates.

I looked at her. “So has everyone else, Ma.”

By evening, the house was quieter. The guests had left. The leftover balloons drooped

slightly, tired from all the celebration.

Aanya sat on the floor with her gifts, opening them one by one, calling everyone to show

what she’d gotten.

She looked up at me, her smile bright.

“Bua, this one’s from you, right?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “You liked it?”

“I love it!” she said, hugging the box tight.

And then — she did something that shattered the stillness.

She ran to her father — my brother — and said, “Papa, look! Bua gave me this!”

He smiled at her — warm, genuine, the way only a father could. Then he looked at me, and

something flickered in his eyes.

Something like regret, maybe. Or just discomfort.

But I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I had learned silence long ago.

Later that night, after dinner, a small argument began between my mother and me — over

something trivial, almost meaningless.

A dish I hadn’t eaten, a tone she misread. But words have sharp memories — they know

where to cut.

Before I could calm myself, he entered the room.

My brother.

“What’s going on here?” he asked sharply.

I looked at him, my voice steady. “It’s nothing. You don’t need to interfere.”

He frowned. “You’re talking to Ma. Show some respect.”

And that — that one word — respect — reopened every wound I had buried for three years.

Respect.

The word that had vanished the day he had raised his hand on me.

The word that had been swallowed by my silence and my father’s blame.

My throat tightened, but I didn’t raise my voice.

This time, I just looked at him — calm, almost distant — and said,

“I came here for Aanya. Not for this.”

He looked away, muttering something under his breath, and left.

My mother stood still.

My sister-in-law, watching from the corner, turned away quietly.

And Aanya — little Aanya — peeked from behind the curtain, her eyes confused, sensing

something she couldn’t name.

That night, I sat by the same window again, the city lights flickering outside like faint

memories.

It’s strange how the same walls can hold both laughter and pain, I wrote. How birthdays and

breakdowns can happen under the same roof.

I realized then — forgiveness doesn’t mean return.

It means peace in walking away.

SECTION THREE — THE LEAVING

I woke before dawn.

The house was asleep — wrapped in silence and soft breathing. The faint hum of the ceiling

fan, the distant call of a morning hawker, the occasional creak of the wooden door — all of it

felt oddly louder in the quiet.

I sat on the bed for a moment, staring at the packed bag by my side. I had decided last night

— I would leave before anyone woke up. No goodbyes, no explanations. Just... leave.

I walked to the living room. The balloons from yesterday’s party hung deflated, ribbons

curled on the floor like the remnants of laughter that didn’t belong to me.

On the coffee table, a half-empty glass of water and a tiny pink hairband — Aanya’s.

I picked it up and held it for a moment, smiling faintly.

She had slipped into my room last night, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered,

“Don’t go soon, Bua. Stay a few more days, please.”

I had promised her, “Next time.”

But both of us knew — there might never be a next time.

As I zipped my suitcase, I heard footsteps.

My mother stood by the doorway, her eyes sleepy yet alert.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, her voice soft, a little wounded.

“Yes, Ma. My work’s pending. I have to be back.”

She nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. “At least have some breakfast before you

go.”

I smiled faintly. “I’ll eat at the airport.”

She didn’t argue. She just looked at me — really looked — as if trying to memorize my face.

Maybe she sensed what I couldn’t say. Maybe she knew this was more than just a short

goodbye.

“I wish things were different,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

When I stepped out, the morning was pale and cool. The driver loaded my bag, and as the

car started, I looked back at the balcony — the same one where Aanya had waved to me

years ago, tiny hands reaching for the sky.

No one stood there now.

And maybe that’s what closure looks like — empty spaces where pain used to live.

The streets of Ranchi passed by slowly — the school I’d gone to, the temple where Ma still

prayed, the tea stall where Bhaiya and I once shared samosas after tuition.

Each landmark felt like an echo.

Each echo felt like a goodbye.

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

Maybe love doesn’t die, I thought. It just runs out of places to stay.

At the airport, I waited quietly near the boarding gate. Around me, people chatted, laughed,

argued about luggage weight — normal lives continuing, unaware of how mine had shifted

in the span of twenty-four hours.

I opened my journal. My hands didn’t shake this time.

February 13

Sometimes, you go home thinking you’ve healed, and then realize healing isn’t about

forgetting what happened — it’s about learning to walk through the same door without

letting it break you again.

I came, I saw, I stayed for love.

And when love hurt again, I left — not out of anger, but because peace whispered, “It’s

time.”

I forgive them — not because they deserve it, but because I deserve peace.

But forgiveness doesn’t erase memory.

It just teaches you to live with it quietly.

I closed the diary, took a deep breath, and looked out at the runway — that endless stretch

of possibility.

The announcement for boarding echoed through the hall.

I stood up, picked up my bag, and walked ahead.

No tears this time.

No heaviness.

Just a quiet ache — the kind that doesn’t demand healing anymore.

As the plane lifted off, the city shrank beneath me — my past turning small, like a

photograph fading in the distance.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t look back.

Some stories don’t end with closure. They end with understanding.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

By Sweta Mishra