My World Crumbles
Part 1: The Call That Changed Everything
It was just another regular Tuesday.
The sun filtered lazily through the blinds of Myra’s office window, stripes of light dancing across her desk where files were stacked, a half-drunk coffee sat cooling, and her fingers tapped rhythmically on her laptop. She was buried deep in a client presentation, headphones in, half-listening to instrumental piano music, when her phone vibrated.
Papa Calling...
A small smile played on her lips. Her father rarely called during her work hours. Sliding the headphones off, she picked up.
“Hello, Papa?”
But instead of the usual warmth in his voice, she heard static… then a broken sob.
She sat up straighter. “Papa? I can't hear you. Say that again?”
A few more crackles… then just three words that shattered everything:
“Rohan is gone…”
Her hand froze mid-air. Her phone slipped, bouncing softly on the table. The office noise dimmed. The tapping keyboards, the occasional laughter, even the AC’s hum—faded to a distant fog.
Rohan? No. Not her little brother. She had just spoken to him last night. He was laughing, teasing her about her strict diet, asking if she'd booked her tickets for Rakshabandhan. He had asked what kind of watch she wanted for Diwali. He had shared his new college gossip, and she had lovingly scolded him for staying up too late.
And now he was… gone?
Her throat closed up. She wanted to scream, punch her computer, throw the glass paperweight against the wall. Her fingers trembled above the keyboard. Her eyes welled, but no tears fell. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
She swallowed the scream rising inside her.
She looked around — her colleagues were engrossed in their screens, unaware that her entire world had just crumbled. She slowly got up, walked stiffly to the washroom, locked the door behind her, and collapsed against the cold tiles.
Silent tears finally betrayed her composure.
Part 2: The Silence Between Us
The phone had long stopped vibrating. The office buzz continued in a parallel world—people discussing deadlines, walking past her cubicle, sipping tea. But Myra wasn’t part of that world anymore.
She somehow managed to tell her manager she had to leave. No reasons. Just a face pale enough to stop any further questions.
Her hands moved mechanically—booking flights, feeding her three-month-old daughter, packing hastily. Her husband was calm, supportive, silently watching over both mother and child. But even he knew, nothing could protect Myra from the weight of what waited at the end of this journey.
What broke her a little more was the fact that she couldn’t scream or collapse—not yet. She had to hold it in… for her younger sister, Neha.
Neha was extremely close to Rohan—their youngest sibling. Their bond was more like soul twins—sharing playlists, making reels together, late-night confessions. If Neha came to know the truth before they reached home… she wouldn’t survive the breakdown.
So, Myra played her part.
When they met at the airport in Delhi, Neha hugged her tight, clueless. “Myra didi, what happened to Rohan? Papa said he met with an accident but didn't say much. Is he okay? Why is no one answering properly?”
Myra hugged her back and said in the steadiest voice she could muster, “He’s hurt, Neha... but we’ll reach soon, okay? Let’s not panic before we know everything.”
The drive from Delhi to their hometown felt eternal. The taxi windows showed fields and towns passing by, but inside the vehicle, time had stopped.
Neha kept asking questions. Myra kept swallowing tears. Her husband gently rocked their baby in his lap while occasionally placing a reassuring hand on Myra’s knee.
Myra stared out the window, the words of her father on loop:
"Rohan is gone."
How could she console her parents when her own chest felt hollow? What would she even say when they reached?
What could anyone say when the most cheerful, youngest child of the family—someone who had his whole life ahead—was taken so brutally by fate?
She remembered the way Rohan had laughed just last night.
Now he was lying cold, lifeless. Alone on a hospital table.
She flinched.
The weight of not crying was worse than crying itself.
But she had to wait.
Just a few more hours… then she could finally let it all out.
Part 3: The Last Return
The streets looked the same, but nothing else did.
The taxi pulled up outside their home. Myra’s heart pounded like it would escape her chest. She could see people gathered—neighbours, distant relatives, some of her father’s colleagues. Faces she knew and some she didn’t. All painted with the same hue of disbelief and sorrow.
Before she could even unbuckle her daughter’s carrier, her mother-in-law rushed forward. Grief etched on her face, yet trying to remain strong—for Myra.
“Myra beta…” she whispered, pulling her into a brief hug.
But Myra couldn’t respond. She had to get to her parents.
Without a word, she handed her three-month-old daughter into her mother-in-law’s arms and ran—half-stumbling—through the gate, past the people, through the walls of muffled sobs, into the house she had grown up in.
She saw her sister-in-law—Rohan’s bhabhi—sitting quietly in a corner, her eyes swollen, saree crumpled. And then her eyes fell on her parents.
Her mother sat on the floor, her head covered, body swaying slightly like a pendulum of pain, supported on one side by a neighbour. Her father stood near the door—shoulders hunched in a way Myra had never seen before. His kurta had bloodstains—probably from when he had seen Rohan at the morgue. He looked decades older than he had the week before.
“Papa…” she breathed, but her voice barely came out.
He looked up. For a second, his composure faltered, and his lips trembled. But he straightened and walked toward her, placing a hand on her head.
“Beta, we brought him home… he’s inside.”
That was it. The wall broke.
Myra collapsed to her knees right there, clutching her father’s legs, letting out the sob she had been holding in since the airport, since the call, since the nightmare began.
Neha, who had just entered behind her, looked around in confusion.
“Why is everyone… why is mummy crying like this?” she asked her husband, her voice beginning to shake.
Before anyone could answer, her eyes darted past the open curtain where a white sheet lay on the floor — under it, Rohan’s face barely visible.
“No… no... this isn’t… this can’t be…” Neha whispered.
And then she screamed.
It was a scream no one in the house would ever forget.
Part 4: Ashes and Goodbye
The room felt colder than death.
A silence had taken over the house — not the kind where no one speaks, but the kind where every breath sounds like a scream.
The ambulance arrived at the gate, and the siren — low, respectful, tragic — echoed down the lane.
Myra stood up instinctively. So did her father. Everyone else gathered near the door, quiet and still, as if even the air knew what was coming.
They brought him in.
Wrapped in black polythene. His body… her brother’s body… placed like an object on the floor.
Like he was no one.
Like the world didn’t know he was someone’s only son.
Someone’s baby brother.
Someone’s future.
Myra wanted to tear the plastic off, scream, collapse — but her eyes met her father’s. And she knew, if she broke, he would shatter.
They washed his body.
Bathed him in silence, dried him in tears, and wrapped him in white cloth. The sacred robe of peace.
But how peaceful can cloth be when the body beneath it is only 21 years old?
She sat by his side. Stared at him.
His eyes, forever closed.
His lips, still.
His face — no longer glowing from late-night jokes or rakhi plans — now pale and distant.
“Rohan…” she whispered. “Is this what you meant by all your sisters coming home this year?”
No one responded.
It was time.
The pandit called the family to prepare for the cremation. Her father stepped forward, but his legs buckled.
“Papa!” Myra cried, holding him. But his tears had finally found their way out.
“To burn the one you gave birth to… How will I live now, beta?” he wept, collapsing into her arms.
Myra, choking back her own pain, held him like a child.
Then came the final moment.
All three sisters were called. One by one, they stepped forward.
Each carrying a thread. Each holding years of love, memories, and unspoken promises.
They tied the last rakhi.
His hand — fractured, bruised, lifeless — still felt like home.
The priest chanted. The air felt heavy.
And just like that, Rohan was taken away — not for a new city, or a college exam — but for his final journey.
As the fire took over, Myra held her sisters’ hands.
All three cried — not just for their brother, but for every unsaid word, every plan that would never happen.
And when the flames reached the sky, Myra whispered:
“Go, Rohan. But stay in every silence. Every festival. Every thread We tied in your name.
Dr. Pallavi Pal
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