By Vimal Kapoor
Arvind had always believed he was the luckiest man alive. Not because of his growing business, his beautiful home, or even the accolades he earned. It was Maya — his wife, his home, his heartbeat.
She was breathtaking. Strangers often stopped mid-sentence to stare, children reached for her hand, and photographers lined up at their wedding to capture her smile. But to Arvind, Maya’s beauty was not in her flawless skin or perfect smile — it was in the way she leaned her head on his shoulder during hard times, the way she said his name like it was the only word in the world.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she would giggle as they lay on the grass under the stars.
“Like what?” he would tease, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.
“Like I’m magic.”
“You are,” he’d whisper, kissing her brow. “You always will be.”
Their first three years of marriage were a sequence of lazy Sundays, whispered poems over coffee, and long walks in the nearby garden. They were soul mates in the true sense.
Then, one monsoon morning, it started — a red spot on her cheek.
“It’s nothing,” she’d said, laughing. “Probably an allergy.”
But it wasn’t. The rashes spread. Her skin changed — blistering, darkening, shrinking into something foreign. The doctors called it a rare autoimmune disease. No cure.
Maya stared into the mirror, silent.
“I’m still me,” she said one night, her voice trembling, “but… I don’t recognise this face anymore.”
Arvind wrapped his arms around her, gently turning her from the mirror. “Your face is not what I fell in love with, Maya. It’s your soul. Your soul hasn’t changed.”
But Maya began pulling away. She avoided their walks. Their dinners turned quiet. She slept turned away from him.
One night, in the darkness, she whispered, “You don’t have to say I’m beautiful anymore.”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel better,” he replied. “I say it because it’s true.”
“I can’t bear for you to look at me like this.”
“But Maya—”
“No,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “Please. Don’t lie. Just… stop looking.”
She began leaving the lights off, started eating alone. The house grew heavy with silence.
And then it happened.
Arvind was driving to get her medicines. The rain was thick, the fog thicker. The truck came out of nowhere. He woke up two days later in the hospital, visionless.
“He has lost his vision” the doctor said gently.
Maya sat beside him, hollow-eyed. When she touched his hand, he smiled.
“Don’t cry,” he said softly.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her tears soaking the sheets.
He touched her cheek — careful, deliberate. “It’s just darkness. But you… you’re still my light.”
From that day on, Maya returned to him. Her hands, once afraid, now moved with purpose — guiding him, feeding him, tying his shoelaces, changing his clothes. They talked more. She laughed again, sometimes with tears in her eyes. He told her stories. She sang his favourite Kishore Kumar songs to him softly at night.
One evening, as he touched her face, she said, “You don’t flinch anymore.”
“I never did.”
“But I’m… not what I used to be.”
He smiled. “You’re more. So much more.”
The years passed gently. Her disease worsened, but her spirit soared. She was his shadow and strength. People often whispered in awe about her devotion and his courage.
Then, one evening in the garden, Maya’s foot caught on a loose stone.
“Arvind—” she gasped.
His hand reached out instinctively, but she had already slipped. The sound of her head hitting the pavement would haunt him forever.
She died instantly.
The funeral was crowded. People wept openly. Arvind sat motionless, dark glasses hiding his pain.
After the cremation, a friend approached him, voice choked. “She was your eyes, Arvind. How will you live now?”
Arvind removed his glasses slowly. His eyes, clear and unclouded, met theirs.
“I’ll live with the truth,” he said softly. “I WAS NEVER BLIND.”
The crowd gasped.
“She thought I couldn’t see. I let her believe it. When she began hiding from her own reflection, I knew I had to give her something back. So, I gave her my sight.”
His voice trembled. “I watched her face change every day. I saw the scars, the pain. But I also saw something deeper — a strength, a love that only grew.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?” someone whispered.
He looked at the sky, his voice a breath.
“Because she needed to believe I couldn’t see. That’s what freed her. And loving her meant seeing with her heart… not my eyes.”
He stood slowly, as if carrying her memory within every breath.
“And I’ll keep seeing her — beautiful, radiant, mine — for the rest of my life.”
(Vimal Kapoor a Dehradun resident, is passionate about literature, creative writing, cricket and exploration through travel)
