A Love Written In Silence

CHAPTER 8 — Every Prayer Is His

Time had a way of weaving itself around Siya’s quiet love, turning days into months and months into years without dimming the light in her heart. Now twentytwo, freshly graduated with a degree in Literature, Siya moved through her days with a gentle grace that masked the depth of her inner world. The two hidden tattoos — “Siddharth” near her hipbone and “Sid ♡” on the side of her ring finger — served as constant, private reminders of her commitment. She touched them often in moments of solitude, drawing strength from their permanence. Her love had evolved into something beautifully selfless, a love that sought nothing in return, only his wellbeing across the miles.

She learned about his important moments through Arjun’s casual mentions during phone calls or rare visits home. Arjun never suspected how deeply those snippets affected his little sister. To him, it was just brotherly gossip. To Siya, each piece of news became a sacred occasion to pour her heart into prayers.

The first major event she remembered vividly was Siddharth’s finalyear engineering exams in Delhi. Arjun had called one evening while Siya was helping her mother fold clothes in the courtyard.

"Arjun beta, kya khabar hai Siddharth ki?" their mother asked, putting the phone on speaker.

(Arjun son, any news about Siddharth?)

“Woh ab final year exams de raha hai, Maa. Bahut tense hai. Last semester hai, accha score chahiye job ke liye,” Arjun replied.

(He is giving his final year exams, Mom. He’s very tense. It’s the last semester, he needs a good score for the job.)

Siya’s hands stilled on the saree she was folding. Her heart quickened. That night, after everyone slept, she opened her old leather diary and her blue notebook side by side.

"Aaj se main nirahar rahungi, Siddharth. Aapke exams ke liye," she wrote.

(From today, I will keep a fast for you, Siddharth.)

The next morning, she woke before dawn. She bathed, wore a simple white salwar suit, and lit a small brass diya in front of the tulsi plant in the courtyard. The flame flickered gently in the early morning breeze as she folded her hands and closed her eyes.

"Bhagwan, Siddharth ko shakti dena. Unke dimag ko tez banao, unke man ko shaant rakho. Woh jo bhi karein, safal ho," she prayed softly.

(God, give strength to Siddharth. Sharpen his mind, keep his heart peaceful. Whatever he does, may he succeed.)

She fasted the entire day, drinking only water and tender coconut water her mother insisted on. When her mother questioned her, Siya smiled gently.

"Maa, aaj mann kar raha tha upvas rakhne ka. Koi vishesh din hai," she said calmly.

(Mom, I felt like keeping a fast today. It’s a special day.)

Her mother nodded, used to her daughter’s quiet spiritual nature. No one knew the fast was offered at the altar of her unspoken love. In the evening, she anonymously donated a modest sum through an online charity platform to an education fund — one she knew Siddharth had once mentioned supporting during a conversation with Arjun years ago. The receipt was carefully tucked into her notebook.

As the week of exams progressed, Siya continued her quiet rituals. She lit lamps every evening, whispering prayers into the night sky. On the final day, when Arjun called to say Siddharth had completed his papers, Siya broke her fast with a simple meal of fruits and kheer, offering the first spoonful to the tulsi plant.

"Shukriya Bhagwan. Usne safalta paayi hogi," she murmured with a peaceful smile.

(Thank you God. He must have achieved success.)

Siddharth never knew. And Siya never expected him to.

Months later, news of his campus placement interview reached her. Arjun was visiting home for Diwali and mentioned it casually over dinner.

"Siddharth ko ek achhi company mein interview call aaya hai. Bahut badi firm hai Delhi mein. Woh nervous hai lekin taiyaari kar raha hai," Arjun said while eating.

(Siddharth got an interview call from a good company. It’s a big firm in Delhi. He’s nervous but preparing hard.)

Siya’s heart swelled with a mix of pride and tenderness. That same night, she began another fast. The following morning, she visited the local temple alone, carrying a small basket of flowers and sweets.

The priest smiled at her. “Beta, kiske liye puja kar rahi ho aaj?”

(Child, for whom are you performing puja today?)

Siya bowed her head. “Kisi vishesh vyakti ke safalta ke liye, pandit ji.”

(For the success of a special person, pandit ji.)

She lit several diyas in the temple, her hands steady despite the emptiness in her stomach. Back home, she spent the day in quiet reflection, rereading entries in her “Things About Siddharth” notebook. She remembered his favorite songs and hummed them softly while doing household chores.

"Siddharth, aap yeh interview zaroor c***k kar lenge. Main poori shakti aapke saath bhej rahi hoon," she whispered while lighting an extra diya in her room that evening.

(Siddharth, you will definitely c***k this interview. I am sending all my strength with you.)

The anonymous donation this time went to a skilldevelopment charity that supported young engineers — a cause she had learned Siddharth cared about. She never used her real name. It was always through a generic donor ID.

When Arjun later shared that Siddharth had cleared the interview and received a wonderful offer letter, Siya felt a quiet joy bloom inside her chest. She celebrated alone by cooking his favorite aloo paratha that evening and offering it as prasad.

Her mother noticed her glowing face. “Aaj bahut khush lag rahi hai beta. Kya baat hai?”

(You look very happy today, child. What’s the matter?)

“Bas aise hi, Maa. Dil khush hai,” Siya replied, her eyes soft.

(Just like that, Mom. My heart is happy.)

No one suspected the selfless love fueling that happiness.

As years unfolded, this pattern became Siya’s sacred rhythm. When Siddharth cleared his final exams with distinction, she fasted for two days and donated to a library initiative. When he received his first promotion at work, she spent an entire night in prayer, lighting a row of earthen diyas on the terrace under the open sky.

"Har safalta aapki ho, Siddharth. Main sirf door se dekh kar khush ho jaati hoon," she wrote in her diary after hearing the news.

(May every success be yours, Siddharth. I become happy just watching from afar.)

Jaanvi, still her close friend even after college, remained blissfully unaware. One evening at a cafe, Jaanvi tried her usual matchmaking talk.

"Siya, ab toh bata de. Koi hai kya tere life mein? Itni sundar ho, phir bhi har proposal reject karti ja rahi hai!"

(Siya, now tell me. Is there someone in your life? You’re so beautiful, yet you keep rejecting every proposal!)

Siya stirred her tea slowly, her left hand with the hidden “Sid ♡” tattoo resting in her lap. “Jaanvi, mera mann nahi karta. Main apne sapnon mein khush hoon.”

(Jaanvi, I don’t feel like it. I am happy in my own dreams.)

Jaanvi sighed. “Kuch toh secret hai tera. Ek din bataegi zaroor.”

But Siya only smiled. Her secret was too precious, too pure to share. It belonged to the realm of silent prayers and unseen sacrifices.

During one particularly significant achievement — Siddharth winning a prestigious company award for innovation — Siya learned about it when Arjun excitedly showed her a photo on his phone during a family dinner.

"Dekho, Siddharth ne award jeet liya! Boss ne khud stage pe bulaya tha," Arjun said proudly.

(Look, Siddharth won an award! The boss himself called him on stage.)

Siya’s eyes lingered on the photo. Siddharth looked older now, more confident, but that familiar smile still made her heart skip. That night, she fasted strictly, consuming only water. She visited the temple at dawn and performed a special aarti.

"He Ram, Siddharth ko aur unchi uchaiyan dena. Unki har ichha poori karna," she prayed, tears glistening in her eyes as the temple bells rang.

(O Ram, give Siddharth even greater heights. Fulfill all his wishes.)

She made a larger anonymous donation to a cricket coaching camp for underprivileged children — a cause she knew from old memories that Siddharth deeply supported. The satisfaction she felt was profound, a selfless joy that needed no acknowledgment.

Her mother sometimes worried about her frequent fasts. “Beta, itna upvas kyun? Sharir kharab ho jaayega.”

(Child, why so many fasts? Your body will suffer.)

Siya hugged her gently. “Maa, yeh mere mann ki shaanti ke liye hai. Aap chinta mat kijiye.”

(Mom, this is for the peace of my mind. Don’t worry.)

In the quiet hours, Siya often sat with her diary, pouring her selfless love onto its pages. She wrote long letters she would never send:

"Aapko kabhi pata nahi chalega kitni raaton maine aapke liye jaagi hoon, kitne upvas rakhe hain, kitni diyaen jalayi hain. Main kuch maangti nahi hoon — na aapka pyaar, na aapki yaad. Sirf aapki khushi."

(You will never know how many nights I have stayed awake for you, how many fasts I have kept, how many lamps I have lit. I ask for nothing — not your love, not even your remembrance. Only your happiness.)

This selfless love had become her anchor. It shaped her character, making her more compassionate, more patient. She volunteered at local charities, helped neighbors, and excelled in her own small pursuits, all while her heart remained tuned to a man far away who knew nothing of her sacrifices.

On quiet fullmoon nights, she would stand on the terrace, the “Sid ♡” tattoo catching the moonlight as she raised her hand slightly.

"Har prayer aapke naam hai, Siddharth. Har diya aapke liye jalti hai. Yeh pyaar sirf dena jaanta hai, kuch maangna nahi," she whispered into the breeze.

(Every prayer is in your name, Siddharth. Every lamp burns for you. This love only knows how to give, not to ask for anything.)

Years continued this way. Promotions, new projects, personal milestones — each became an occasion for Siya’s quiet rituals. She never sought credit. She never hoped for a phone call or a chance meeting. Her love had transcended the need for reciprocation. It existed beautifully in its purity, like the steady flame of the diyas she lit without fail.

As she closed the notebook one night, a soft smile graced her lips. Siddharth might never know how many lamps had been lit in his name, how many days she had gone without food for his success, or how deeply her heart celebrated his every achievement. And that was perfectly fine.

Because true love, the kind Siya carried, was not about possession. It was about love without demands, prayers without expectations, and a heart that found its greatest joy in the happiness of the beloved — even from afar.

The house slept peacefully around her, but Siya’s soul remained awake in quiet celebration of a love that needed no witness except the divine and her own devoted heart.