Forgotten Ties, Unspoken Wounds: The Tragic Journeys of Minakhi and Rupali
By Lokanath Mishra
Some stories are not written in ink but carved in sorrow. They are stories of women who give everything—youth, beauty, education, money, loyalty—yet are left empty-handed, forgotten by the very people they nurtured. Such is the tale of Minakhi and her long-lost classmate Rupali—two women bound by misfortune, betrayal, and resilience. Their lives, though separated by destiny, intersected after fifty years in a way that revealed the cruelty of time and the indifference of those closest to them.
Minakhi: A Life of Sacrifice, A Life of Loss
Born into an ordinary family, Minakhi’s brilliance shone early. She graduated in science with distinction and earned a coveted post in the state government as an administrative officer. Beautiful, dignified, and ambitious, she was the pride of her family.
Marriage followed in the traditional way. She was married to a distant relative—a central government scientist with foreign doctoral degrees, a man highly placed with a handsome salary. Theirs was not a love match, but the union promised respectability and stability.
When her husband’s career called him to Mumbai, Minakhi resigned from her government post and pursued an MBA at a prestigious business school. Soon, she was leading in a reputed private firm, managing both career and home with elegance. For fifteen years, their marriage seemed like a success. The couple was blessed with twins—a boy and a girl—and their home echoed with laughter and dreams.
But dreams are fragile. Her husband secured a position at a world-renowned research institute in the USA. The family relocated, but for Minakhi, America was alien. She could not adjust, could not find work that matched her caliber, could not call it home. Eventually, she returned to India on leave without pay, resuming her job while her family remained abroad.
What began as temporary separation soon hardened into permanent distance. Her children, absorbed in their American lives, slowly forgot the mother who had once sacrificed everything for them. When they married into prosperous families abroad, they never returned to India. Her husband divorced her and remarried a younger scientist. For him, life blossomed anew. For Minakhi, it withered.
She retired in Mumbai, alone in a flat once filled with laughter. A nurse now cared for her, but no child called her “mother,” no sibling checked on her, no husband held her hand.
Forgotten by Her Own Blood
The greatest betrayal often comes not from strangers but from one’s own kin. Minakhi had three younger brothers, all of whom she supported. Their father, a low-paid government clerk, could not afford their education. It was Minakhi who financed their studies in engineering and management, even arranging her parents’ funerals when they passed away.
But gratitude is short-lived. Once her brothers gained UK citizenship, they cut all ties. Married to foreign wives, they erased their only sister from their lives. The very woman who had carried the family’s burdens was left abandoned in her final years.
The Golden Jubilee: A Journey Back in Time
In 2024, her school organized a Golden Jubilee Reunion for the batch of 1974. Out of 219 students, 187 attended, 140 bringing their spouses. Minakhi, hearing of it from a distant contact, decided to attend.
Arriving at 9 AM sharp, she was greeted by a sea of familiar yet unfamiliar faces. Many remembered her instantly—her beauty had not faded much, her grace intact. Yet for Minakhi, the faces of her classmates blurred into obscurity; fifty years was too long.
Among the crowd stood Rohan, the boy who had once loved her in school but later betrayed her. He now arrived with his wife—a frail, unattractive woman with white hair. Yet, Rohan never greeted Minakhi, not even a smile. The silence was more piercing than words.
The reunion began with a grand breakfast: steaming idlis, tangy sambar, chutneys, pakoras, upma, and dahi vadas. The taste was strangely familiar to Minakhi, tugging at some forgotten memory.
And then, across the hall, she saw a woman in a blue sari. Something about the face stirred her heart. When someone announced that the complimentary breakfast had been provided by their old classmate Rupali, the memories came flooding back.
Rupali: Poverty’s Child, Strength’s Daughter
Minakhi remembered Rupali—the quiet girl with the single black bag, the torn raincoat, and the homemade meals that smelled better than anyone else’s. Her father was a rickshaw puller, her mother ran a tiny tea stall. Rupali would bring food from that stall: hot upma, matar curry, pakoras, or dahi vada. By lunchtime, her sun-warmed tiffin would become the envy of all.
But life was merciless. Classmates often mocked her family’s poverty, some even stealing her lunch. Yet, Rupali never complained beyond a few tears and silent stares. Her father, frail with asthma, often ferried schoolchildren in his rickshaw while Rupali walked in the rain. Once, he collapsed while driving and died on the road. The entire burden of the family fell on young Rupali and her mother.
She never married. Instead, she expanded her mother’s tea stall into a thriving restaurant. With sheer determination, she educated her siblings and gave them respectable lives. But like Minakhi’s brothers, they too abandoned her. After her mother’s death during the pandemic, Rupali was left alone, running her restaurant until even that was threatened by eviction.
Two Forgotten Women, One Last Bond
When Rupali and Minakhi recognized each other, they embraced as though reclaiming the childhood they had both lost. They sat together, sharing tea and tears. Rupali told her story—of loss, struggle, sacrifice, and loneliness. Minakhi, in turn, poured out her own.
Both had been betrayed by family, abandoned by children, deserted by siblings. Both had given their strength to others only to be left hollow in return.
That night, Minakhi stayed with Rupali. When she learned that Rupali’s restaurant would soon close and that she had nowhere to go, Minakhi offered:
“Come with me to Mumbai. I have a flat, I have savings. Let us live together. We have spent our lives for others—now let us spend what remains for ourselves.”
With hesitation but also relief, Rupali agreed.
Epilogue: Companionship in Twilight
Thus, two women, forgotten by blood but united by fate, began a quiet life together in Mumbai. They cooked simple meals, shared stories of their youth, and found comfort in each other’s company.
Their story is not one of triumph, but of survival. It is a reminder that success, beauty, and sacrifice often go unrewarded, that the world can be cruel, and that the greatest gift in the end may simply be companionship in loneliness.
As the world moves on, women like Minakhi and Rupali fade into the shadows—unnoticed, uncelebrated, yet carrying within them the silent strength of generations.
The Midnight Train and the Fractured Marriage
Om, Swaha, and Namaskar