On December’s cold and silent night,
In Chahenkalo dim by lantern light,
Priya slipped on her pajamas slow,
Brushed sleepy dreams in moonlit glow.
She climbed in bed with hopes held tight,
Waiting for Anand, out of sight—
From steaming bath he’d surely come,
To rest beside her, heart and home.
The house was hushed, the silence deep,
A quiet that refused to sleep—
It whispered wounds she tried to hide,
Of empty cradles never tried.
Dreams of a child she longed to hold,
Now fading as the years grew old.
Yet still she smiled, still felt his love,
A gift she thanked the stars above.
Then bathroom door swung open wide—
But not the man she’d hoped inside.
No nightshirt worn, just robe undone,
His face burned red like setting sun.
She searched his eyes, confused, afraid,
Before a single word was said—
He turned and bolted down the track,
Bare feet pounding, no looking back.
She rose in shock and gave him chase,
Her heartbeat racing with his pace.
Outside she found him on the ground,
Collapsed in dust without a sound.
She shook him hard, she cried his name,
His crimson face still stayed the same.
No breath, no word, no sign of air—
Just silence gripping everywhere.
She ran for help through tearing eyes,
The family came with frantic cries.
They lifted him and drove with speed,
Through darkened roads in desperate need.
At hospital doors she leapt ahead,
“He’s not awake—he might be dead!”
The doctors rushed with urgent tread,
Machines rolled fast beneath her dread.
Through narrow halls the gurney flew,
She chased behind, her terror grew.
From distant gasps she read their signs,
From furrowed brows and silent lines—
Until the doctor stepped aside,
With pity written in his eyes:
“I’m sorry, ma’am… your husband’s gone.”
And just like that—her world withdrawn.
No wail escaped, no scream was heard,
Just one stunned, trembling question stirred:
“How could this be? He wasn’t weak—
He laughed, he lived, he jogged each week.
What cruel unseen hand had slain
A healthy man with youthful vein?”
The doctor sighed, with helpless tone,
“Only an autopsy will make it known.”
Days later under sterile light,
The truth prepared to face the sight.
The chest was cut, the heart was checked—
No fault, no tear, no weak defect.
The lungs stood clear, untouched by disease,
Each organ clean as autumn’s breeze.
No wound, no poison, no clear sign—
A healthy death by no design.
Until the blade, with careful art,
Traced higher up—toward throat and part.
The moment flesh was pulled apart,
The pathologist froze in shock and heart.
For in that space where breath should glide,
A twisted horror lay inside.
The truth uncoiled like cursed thread—
Of secret grief the husband led.
For Anand too had dreamed and prayed,
For tiny feet that never stayed.
In silent shame he’d sought a way,
Not science bright—but shadows gray.
A tantric’s words, dark magic’s lie,
A promise wrapped in occult sky:
“Swallow life to gain new life,
A living chick will end your strife.”
So while his wife lay lost in thought,
A deadly ritual he sought.
In steamy room with trembling hands,
He took the chick as darkness planned.
He tried to gulp its fragile frame—
But hope and horror played the same.
The tiny body blocked his breath,
And hope transformed to choking death.
He ran for air, for life, for sound,
Then fell outside upon the ground.
No miracle, no child, no prayer—
Just two lost lives in whispered air.
Now Priya sleeps with hollow years,
Wrapped in love and wrapped in tears.
Her dream once warm is now a scar,
A wish that wandered much too far.
A child was sought through cursed design—
And death, not life, was the dark sign.