Silent Regrets(Talwinder kaur) Every day seemed to be running a marathon of tasks and duties, leaving me weary at the end of it all and most often irritable. Tasks seemed to etch an unvaryingly sour visage on my face every day. Days would start with waking up my seven-year-old child, getting him ready for school, and packing his lunch box diligently. Once he was out to start the day, I treasured a quiet moment alone with my favourite cardamom tea. Indeed, the aroma infused with cloves, fennel seeds, and cardamoms brought a fleeting sense of serenity, which I savoured amidst the morning rush.
This calm lasted only for a moment, as attention was then focused on my clingy two-year-old and all of the household chores that needed attending to: dishes, cooking, laundry, and on and on. Though I may have tried hard to keep everything chugging along, there were those times I felt unappreciated, almost like my effort had gone unseen and unrecognized.
It was in one such working-up phase that my feelings boiled over, and my poor husband became the victim, unsuspectingly. Being the understanding soul that he is, he would calmly acknowledge my mood without jumping into arguments and give me all the space I needed to collect myself and my thoughts. Though he isn't responsible for all this frustration.
It was one fateful night when I was about to rest my body into a fitful sleep, burdened by unspoken grievances. Suddenly, I was shaken out of bed. Somewhat groggy and disoriented, I at first mistook this as usual morning chaos. I thought that the alarm has not rung and now I am late for everything. It was my husband lying uncomfortably there, his voice so hushed as he tried to tell me what caused him pain—severe pain in his lower abdomen and back. He felt nauseous, and he felt really dizzy. Right at that very moment, floods of memories came back when, years ago, my father went through the same thing.
A state of panic enveloped me as I tried to keep my cool. He would shake in my arms as I held him; my voice heavy, the repressed tears choking me. Quivering hands and a leaden heart—the only comforts I could give him at that moment were those learned from past experiences that had built my strength. "It's kidney stone pain," I could say, my voice full of concern and compassion, "You'll be fine." It was a serious case, and he was trying not to make any noise not to hamper my sleep, but he didn't have any other option to get immediate help. I am a light sleeper, yet somehow, I couldn't hear the commotion inside my room. It was now 4'O clock in the morning. Ignoring my tiredness, I immediately jumped to action and admitted him in the hospital without more delay. He was whisked away to seek medical attention, and with that, my mind went helter-skelter with feelings of fear, worry, regret, and a deep sense of realization. Petty grudges and frustrations just melted at this instant of crisis, and it began to be realized that life is so very uncertain and our time together so very fragile.
Now, hours seemed eternity long, with me waiting to hear from them—all heavy moments with apprehension and introspection.
When finally, the news came that he was stable and being treated, I felt a wave of relief.
But inborn in that relief was a new resolution: appreciate every moment, be vocal about love and gratitude, and let go of all petty quibbles that cloud our everyday interactions. Indeed, not being able to express our feelings or resolve things with someone can genuinely weigh upon us. It can even leave unfinished business behind, where a person is left with a longing for closure. What if you never get to tell someone how much you care? The problems between you are never resolved, just hanging there like a heavy cloud over your heart? These are the questions that linger deep inside our minds, haunting our thoughts with a nagging doubt of what could have been. Life is a hard teacher about the fragility of time and how relationships are shaped with other people—just how they can change in the snap of a finger. So many times do we take life and the people in it for granted; human nature dictates that there will always be another day to tell somebody "I love you," or to mend your fences or to seek forgiveness. Then, in the blink of an eye, reality does a complete turnaround, and we are left with a lifetime of regrets and "what ifs." The unspoken words, unresolved conflicts press upon our souls, and the sun of our lives is eclipsed. Closure may be longed for—having a way to somehow set it right—but there's seldom that option in life.
Our relationship had reached a new depth—not born out of big gestures but shared vulnerabilities against life's uncertainties. Every morning green cardamom tea brings, other than the diffused aroma and comfort that comes along, reminds me of what life taught through those moments of crisis about love, empathy, and profundity in all the 'now' moments we shared.

Talwinder Kaur
Patiala, Punjab

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