The Silent Betrayal
By Lokanath Mishra
Giridhari and Ratnamani had been inseparable during their school days. In the classroom, in the playground, even while preparing for exams, they were each other’s support system. While Giridhari excelled in academics, Ratnamani had a natural talent for communication and kindness that drew people to her. But life, as it often does, led them down very different paths.
Years rolled by. Giridhari became an accountant in a local bank. He married Namita, a practical woman, and together they had two children. His life was modest but steady. Ratnamani, however, was less fortunate. After passing her high school exams, her family’s financial struggles forced her to discontinue her studies. Marriage proposals came but none materialized, as financial stability always stood in the way. Eventually, she found work as an LIC agent, earning just enough to keep herself afloat.
One fine afternoon, fate brought them together again. Giridhari was working at his bank counter when he heard a familiar voice. Turning around, he saw Ratnamani, now in her thirties, still unmarried, her face bearing the lines of struggle but her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. They greeted each other warmly, their old bond instantly rekindled. Giridhari, delighted, invited her home for tea.
That evening, as Giridhari, his wife Namita, and Ratnamani sat together sipping tea, Ratnamani opened her heart.
“Giridhari,” she said softly, “last year during the pandemic, I almost lost my agency. I couldn’t meet the targets. Somehow, with great difficulty, I survived. But this year… this year I need just one more policy to secure my work. My financial condition is terrible. I was hoping, as my best friend, you could help by taking a policy.”
Namita’s expression darkened immediately. She slammed her cup on the saucer and snapped, “We are not wasting money on such things!” Without another word, she left the room, her indignation hanging in the air.
Giridhari looked embarrassed. “Ratnamani, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I don’t have money right now.”
But Ratnamani didn’t give up on her friend. A few days later, she filled out a five-lakh policy in Giridhari’s name and, with great difficulty, paid the ₹10,000 premium herself. It was a risk she bore silently, believing it was both for her survival and her friend’s protection.
Ten months later, tragedy struck. Giridhari died instantly in a road accident. The world collapsed for Namita and the children. Amidst her grief, Namita discovered that Ratnamani had already secured the policy in Giridhari’s name. Without hesitation, Ratnamani helped Namita claim the full five lakh rupees with the bonus.
But gratitude was not what awaited her. When the cheque arrived, Namita turned to Ratnamani and asked coldly, “Why didn’t you make a bigger policy? At least fifty lakhs! By making such a small one, you betrayed me and my children.”
The words pierced deeper than any knife. Ratnamani, stunned and speechless, stood there as her years of sacrifice and loyalty were reduced to an accusation. She quietly left, carrying with her a wound that never healed.
Years later, life took a surprising turn. At 35, Ratnamani married Ashit, a 53-year-old unmarried NRI. They settled in New Zealand before moving permanently to Australia. Ashit, raised in Bombay in the 1970s, was westernized—fond of English music and educated in an English-medium school. With no siblings, his parents depended on him, and Ratnamani selflessly cared for them .
Her new life was comfortable, stable, and filled with dignity. Yet something in her had changed forever. The bitterness of Namita’s betrayal left an indelible scar. She no longer felt the same pull towards India. She wasn’t religious, and neither was Ashit. Festivals, politics, and rituals held no meaning for them. “There are 1.4 billion Indians to keep traditions alive,” she often said. “We don’t need to throw colours or dance garba to prove our roots.”
Instead, she built friendships through her hobbies—ham radio, cooking, and cultural interests—rather than nationality. She had only a handful of Indian-origin friends, not because they were Indian, but because they shared passions with her.
Her belief hardened over time: true patriotism belongs to the country that gives you citizenship, dignity, and identity. For her, that was Australia.
The memory of Namita’s words—sharp, ungrateful, and accusatory—still haunted her at times. That day, over a simple cheque and a heartless remark, she had lost not just a friend’s family but also her emotional ties to her homeland.
And so Ratnamani lived, not bitter but resolved, a woman transformed by betrayal—choosing silence over confrontation, and a new life over the ghosts of her past.