Cracked Mirror

September had came to Pune, when the monsoon lingered like a guest reluctant to leave. The air was thick with dampness, the streets glistened under fading showers, and the smell of wet earth clung to everything. As a real estate consultant in early thirties, I had spent years convincing families that happiness could be measured in square feet and doors facing east. 

My husband, Mihir Pandit, was a Chartered Accountant, meticulous and disciplined, with a wardrobe of neatly pressed shirts and a mind that thought in numbers. We lived in a spacious apartment in Kothrud, with French windows opening to Gulmohar trees washed clean by the rains. On paper, our lives were perfect. But little did I know that paper dissolves in water.

My second miscarriage happened quietly, like a candle extinguished by a sudden gust. I remember the sterile smell of the hospital, the white walls that seemed to mock my grief, and Mihir’s hand gripping mine with a firmness that felt more like duty than comfort.

“It’s ok, we’ll try again, Pari,” he had said, his voice steady, his eyes refusing to meet mine.

I nodded, but inside me something cracked. The child I had imagined, the laughter rehearsed, the lullabies whispered to myself had all vanished into silence.

In that silence, I felt the crushing weight of blame settle entirely on my shoulders, as though I had failed not just as a wife, but as a mother who couldn’t save her second child as well. Every glance from Mihir seemed to echo my own guilt, even when he said nothing, and I was convinced that I was the reason for his quiet suffering. I knew then that this was a battle I would have to fight alone, because dragging him into my storm would only drown us both.

Back at work, I buried myself in site visits and client calls. I smiled at couples touring flats in Baner and Hinjawadi, telling them about Vastu compliance and proximity to schools. But every time I saw a nursery painted in pastel shades, my throat tightened. My colleagues noticed my quietness, but in Pune’s professional circles, grief is carried like a secret file tucked away... heavy, but unseen.

Mihir immersed himself in balance sheets and tax filings. At night, he sat with his laptop open, the glow reflecting off his glasses, while I stared at the ceiling fan whirring above us. 

“You need to move on, Pari,” he said in a practical tone looking at his computer screen. “Dwelling on this won’t help.”

I whispered, “Do you even feel it, Mihir? Do you feel the emptiness?”

He looked at me, startled, then turned back to his screen. That silence was louder than any argument.

It was around this time, that I reconnected with Tara Sethi, a college friend who had chosen spirituality over corporate life. She was single, lived simply, teaching yoga in Koregaon Park and spending time at the ISKON temple near Camp. I met her after years, and noticed that her eyes carried serenity.

“Pari,” she said, holding my hand, “you look like you’re carrying a mountain on your shoulders.”

We met at Vaishali café. I broke down amidst plates of dosa and tumblers of filter coffee. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Tara. I sell homes to people, but I don’t feel at home in my own life.”

She listened with a steady gaze. “Maybe you’re searching for something beyond walls and roofs. Come with me to ISKON. Sometimes, silence answers questions words cannot.”

I resisted, but desperation led me there. The temple was alive with cymbals and incense. Devotees in saffron robes sang “Hare Krishna” with abandon. I stood at the edge, feeling both out of place and strangely drawn in. Tara whispered, “Don’t think, just feel.”

That night, I told Mihir. He frowned. “Pari, spirituality is not for you. You need to focus on your career.”

“My career feels hollow,” I replied. “I want to understand myself.”

He sighed. “You’re being irrational. Everyone faces setbacks. You can’t just abandon everything that you have achieved.”

But I wasn’t abandoning. I was searching. And the search consumed me. I began visiting ISKON regularly, wearing simple cotton dresses, leaving behind the bright silks Mihir admired. I found solace in chanting, in rhythms that dissolved my pain.

My colleagues noticed. “Pari, you look different,” one said. “Peaceful, but distant,” said another. Clients sensed my detachment. I no longer spoke of luxury amenities with conviction. Instead, I asked, “Do you feel at home here?” startling them, but reflecting my inner turmoil.

Mihir grew frustrated. “Pari, get a hold on yourself. You’re slipping away from me,” he said one evening. “I married a woman who was ambitious, lively. Now you’re… someone else.”

“I don’t know who I am, Mihir." I said, "I feel like a stranger in my own skin.”

“And what about me? Do you think I don’t feel the loss? I just choose to fight it differently.”

His words pierced me, but instead of drawing me closer, they pushed me further away. I began spending more time with Tara, walking along the banks of Mula‑Mutha on weekends, philosophizing about life.

But this too, was turning too routine, too superficial. At first, the chants at ISKON felt like a balm, but over time they began to sound rehearsed, as if everyone was performing peace rather than living it. I found myself suffocated by the insistence on surrendering completely to doctrine, realizing I was only trading one cage for another. My grief was too raw, too personal, to dissolve in collective devotion, and I began to see that no amount of agarbatti's or ritual's could erase the emptiness inside me. True peace, I understood, would have to come from within — not borrowed faith, not borrowed voices.

My brother Rohan tried to intervene. One evening, he sat across from me at our parents’ home in Bhosle Nagar.

“Pari, you’re making a mistake,” he said in a caring but firm tone. “Mihir isn’t the enemy... grief is. You’re punishing him for something neither of you could control. He stood by you when you were at your weakest, and now you’re pushing him away when he needs you most. If you keep doing this, Pari, you’ll lose not just him but yourself too.”

He reminded me of Mihir’s quiet strength during hospital nights. “You think you’re searching for peace, but you’re running away from love. Peace doesn’t come from abandoning the people who care for you; it comes from facing pain together. Every step you take away from Mihir is a step deeper into loneliness, and you’re mistaking that emptiness for freedom.” he added. His words lingered, undeniable, though I wasn’t ready to accept them.

Finally, his voice broke with emotion. “You’re destroying yourself, Pari, and punishing Mihir for no fault of his. He doesn’t deserve this exile you’ve created, and neither do you.” I heard him but didn't want to listen him.

I told Mihir, I needed space and moved into a smaller flat in Aundh. He was devastated. “Is this what you want, Pari? To throw away everything we built?”

For the first time I admitted, “I don’t know what I want, but I know I can’t breathe in our home anymore.”

“Pari, you think leaving will help you breathe? It will only suffocate both of us.” 

“I feel trapped, Mihir. Every wall in the house reminds me of what we lost.” 

“And what about me? Do you think I don’t see those walls too? I live in that emptiness every day.” 

“Then why do you hide it behind spreadsheets and numbers? Why can’t you just grieve with me?”

“What? Has it now come to this?” He snapped.

Suddenly his tone softened. I could sense his lower lip quivering. “Pari, everyone has different ways of grieving. Mine is to keep working, to stay steady, because if I collapse, I fear we’ll both drown. Your way is silence and searching, mine is structure and routine, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the same emptiness. Grief doesn’t look the same in every heart, yet it hurts us both just as deeply.”

And suddenly he broke down. He couldn’t control himself anymore. But strangely I couldn’t feel empathy. My grief, I felt was more consuming than his. I left him at that.

People noticed the change. Neighbors whispered when they saw me walking alone, colleagues exchanged glances, relatives asked awkward questions about why Mihir wasn’t at gatherings. Their words stung, but I carried them silently, like stones in my pocket.

Months passed. Mihir and I met occasionally, our conversations strained. He wore formal shirts, his hair beginning to grey, while I appeared in simple outfits, my face bare of makeup. On one occasion, he looked at me with a mix of anger and longing. “You’ve changed, Pari. I don’t recognize you.”

“I don’t recognize myself either,” I replied softly.

One evening, I visited him at our old apartment. In the corner of the living room, I noticed a half empty bottle of Absolut. Mihir had never touched alcohol when we were together. He used to detest it. Mihir came and sat across from me, his eyes tired.

“Why did you leave me, Pari?” abruptly he asked, his voice trembling.

I was unprepared for the direct question. I broke down. “Because I was drowning, Mihir. And I thought leaving would save me. I realize now — I’ve done injustice to you. You stood by me, and I walked away... I will carry this guilt forever.”

“I wanted us to fight together,” he said, tears streaming. 

“I thought leaving would save me, but I see now it only hurt you.” 

“Do you know how many nights I sat alone, staring at your empty side of the bed, wondering if you’d ever come back?” 

“And do you know how many nights I cried in silence, wishing you would just hold me instead of telling me to move on?” 

“I wanted to be strong for you, but maybe my strength looked like coldness. I failed you too.” 

“No, Mihir. I started this. I know I failed us. I will carry this guilt forever, even if you forgive me.”

The room was filled with sobs, not words. We sat across from each other, broken yet bound, knowing that love still existed but had been scarred beyond repair.

In that silence, I felt the weight of my folly pressing down on me. I had walked away from Mihir, convincing myself that distance would heal me, but all I had done was carve a deeper wound into both our lives. And now, though my heart longed to return, I knew that stepping back into his world would only reopen the scars we had barely begun to live with. I feared that my presence would be like salt on his healing skin, reminding him of every night he sat alone, every unanswered question, every moment of abandonment. 

I realized the depth of my folly — that in leaving Mihir I had wounded the very person who had stood beside me in silence when I needed him most. I knew my presence might rekindle hope, only to suffocate it again when my restlessness resurfaced. The guilt I carried was heavy enough, but I could not bear the thought of making his healing harder. I chose to remain apart, believing that distance, however painful, was the only mercy I could still offer him.

I was a broken mirror — one that still reflected an image, but always distorted, fractured, incomplete. If Mihir looked into me now, he would see not the woman he married, but a shattered version of her, pieces rearranged by grief and guilt. And what good would it do him to live with such a reflection? I believed that returning would only confuse him, rekindle hope that I could never fully sustain, and trap us both in a cycle of pain.

The guilt was mine to carry, and I carried it like shards pressed against my chest. I knew Mihir deserved clarity, not the blurred outlines of a wife who no longer knew herself.

Outside, Pune’s streets glistened under streetlights, the city breathing quietly. Inside, I felt both broken and whole, a paradox I would carry with me. My journey was not about finding answers, but about living with questions. And in that acceptance, I found a fragile peace.