Hello everyone, this is Mrs. Nikita Kanaiyalal Shah from Mumbai, born and raised in the heart of the city.
We had two houses — one of our own and the other belonging to my grandparents. My grandfather owned seven vintage cars and was a cricketer in his time, so we also had two garages. We are three sisters, and I am the middle one. Ours was a joint family. Though I don’t remember everything from childhood, I vividly recall how loving both my grandparents were. As a child, I was a fussy eater — my grandmother would hold my hand tightly and lovingly feed me, while my grandfather would bring three cups of vanilla ice cream for us sisters every evening when he returned home.
As we grew up, my eldest sister pursued science and studied pathology. Once she completed her studies, my parents got her married. We were my father’s princesses, and he always treated us that way. But soon after, financial struggles began, and my younger sister’s health started deteriorating. She began losing weight rapidly, and her blood levels dropped. Despite ongoing treatment, there was no improvement. Our family doctor suggested a CT scan, and the reports revealed that both her kidneys had failed. She was put on dialysis.
A nurse advised us to consult a senior nephrologist, Dr. B. V. Gandhi, at Breach Candy Hospital. After discussing the situation, the doctor asked my parents who would donate a kidney. My mother couldn’t due to diabetes. I asked my parents to step outside and told the doctor that I would donate one of mine, as we shared the same blood group. He explained all the risks, including how some people might judge me for it in the future, but I agreed. I went against my parents’ wishes, underwent all the tests alone, and when the doctor confirmed I was fit, I smiled and said, “You’ll remove my right kidney, right?”
The operation was a success. My sister called me her angel, and we both cried. I told her that her life mattered more. But soon after, my mother’s health worsened due to her diabetes, and she too went into kidney failure. She began dialysis, but the doctor warned she could only survive a few sessions. To manage medical costs, we sold both our houses.
Within nine months of my surgery, I met my husband through a family contact. During our first meeting, we didn’t like each other much. In the second meeting with our families, he liked me. The third time, we met at a restaurant. My younger sister, who was recovering from a fever, joined us too. I fell in love with him that day and later sought blessings from his Guru. We got engaged on June 26, and his Guru fixed our wedding date for September.
On August 18, my mother passed away due to multiple organ failure. After her rituals, both families met and decided that since the wedding date had already been chosen, it would go on as planned — though with no celebration except the mehendi ceremony. We married quietly. He was seven years older than me, and we began our married life in a one-bedroom hall kitchen house with his parents, brother, and sister-in-law. We had very little privacy, but I didn’t mind because I truly loved him.
A year later, we had our son. He grew up shy and fearful of getting hurt by other kids, and I always protected him. My husband and I rarely had private time except when I visited my parents’ house. Years passed, and when our son was in 7th standard, my brother-in-law suggested moving out on rent and offered to pay. He did so for a year and then stopped. Within two years, our building went for redevelopment.
My husband was a wedding planner, but competition had grown, and work declined. He often struggled financially and had to borrow from relatives. Nine years ago, he suffered a minor heart attack and had a stent placed. Despite this, he continued taking stress about money. I started working for the first time in my life to help pay rent, but I managed only for seven months before leaving the job. He told me not to work and to take care of the home instead.
For five years, we moved from one rented house to another until we finally found one opposite my in-laws’ home. My younger sister lived with us for a while, and our bond became stronger. She had been on dialysis for twenty years, and her bones had become fragile. After her surgery, my husband, my son, and I took care of her.
But my husband’s stress kept growing. He often worried about not being able to provide enough. On May 6, he passed away suddenly from a cardiac arrest, leaving me and our son behind. Only after his death did I learn that he had made some investments to secure our future. I cried endlessly, not just from loss, but from the love and thoughtfulness he had shown without ever saying it aloud.
This story is for all homemakers — for those who have struggled, sacrificed, and kept families together through every storm. Stay strong, stay blessed.
Tags:
Featured