For seven years, my sister-in-law was deaf and mute. We all gathered to split the bequest after my brother passed away, and then he said something that astounded us all.
In our small hamlet near Lucknow, my sister-in-law, Anika, used to be a vibrant and upbeat woman. She enjoyed filling the house with energy, singing bhajans during festivals, and engaging in continuous conversation with neighbors.
But a cruel hand of fate struck seven years ago.
He was involved in a car accident one evening on his way home from work that severely damaged his hearing. He was totally deaf. He didn’t say anything further after that.
She lived in peace with my older brother, Ramesh, for seven years. She never once voiced any complaints.
She silently handled every household duty, including cooking for the family, caring for my aging parents-in-law, and raising their small boy, without ever seeking assistance from anyone.
She only used pen and paper to communicate, or sometimes she would write brief phone messages.
To tell the truth, I always respected his bravery.
However, tragedy hit us once more.
My brother Ramesh was employed at a textile plant when he unexpectedly passed away from a stroke.
No will was left by him. He didn’t even have the opportunity to speak with his children and wife one more time.
Our parents passed away long ago, so the matter of dividing the family inheritance fell on the relatives.
There were two sons in our family: my elder brother Ramesh, and me, the younger brother who handled all the legal documents.
Soon after the funeral rituals, one of our uncles said in a cold voice:
“The house and land are in the name of your late parents. It is family property. Now that Ramesh is gone, it should be divided equally. You cannot allow the widow to keep everything.”
Anika said nothing.
As she poured water for the guests, her hands were shaking, her long hair was unkempt, and she was dressed in a white widow’s saree.
She remained silent. She didn’t even respond.
“She has been dependent on the family for years,” the relatives began to murmur. Now that her spouse has left, she is silent, and her life is coming to an end.
Some even suggested selling the house and splitting the proceeds into three categories: Anika would get one portion, I would get another, and the remaining portion would be split among uncles and cousins.
Although I was outnumbered, I became irate. Everyone assumed that Anika didn’t grasp anything because she was stupid.
However, she then mentioned that Anika suddenly stood up from her chair as the papers were brought forward for signatures.
His eyes turned bloodshot. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he slammed his palms against the table.
Then, in a low, unwavering voice, he said:
“This house… it was built with the money I got from selling my kidney.”
The room fell into a stunned, breathless silence.
With trembling fingers, he reached into his bag and pulled out a worn, yellowing photocopy—an old medical certificate from a kidney removal surgery done eight years earlier.
I took it from him, my own hands cold and trembling.
Her voice came slowly, each word cutting like a knife:
“When Ramesh lost his job and was about to return to the village with nothing… I sold my kidney. That money bought this land. That money raised these walls you’re sitting within today.”
The atmosphere hardened to stone.
The uncle demanding division broke into a nervous sweat.
The relatives who had whispered and mocked now bowed their heads in shame.
The woman they had called “simple” for seven years had not stayed quiet out of foolishness or fear—she had endured in silence.
On that day, her voice rose again, but only to shield the home she had nearly given her life to build.
She gathered the papers, clutched them tightly to her chest, and retreated to her room.
From that moment onward, no one ever dared utter the word “partition” again.
Seven years of silence, and a single revelation…
It was enough to silence an entire family.