7 Minutes

In a small town bustling with life, where the aroma of freshly brewed chai and the sound of temple bells filled the air, there lived a family that could easily be described as the embodiment of happiness. The husband was a dedicated man, splitting his time between working from the office and home. His wife, a devoted homemaker, spent her days taking care of their small, cozy apartment and their three-year-old daughter, who had just started going to school. Their days were filled with laughter, love, and the simple joys of life.

The couple's daily routine was as seamless as the flow of the Ganges. Every morning, the wife would wake up early to prepare breakfast, iron the husband's shirt, and get their daughter ready for school. The little one, full of energy, would hop around the house, her school bag bouncing on her back as her mother chased her with a spoonful of halwa, insisting on one last bite before they left.

On this particular day, the town was in the throes of a grand festival. The streets were alive with colors and sounds, as people made their way to their hometowns or gathered to celebrate. It was a public holiday, and the husband had decided to work from home, enjoying the festive air from their balcony. The wife, in need of some groceries, decided to visit the local supermarket.

As she left, she playfully reminded her husband to take care of their daughter and finish his work on time. He smiled, reassuring her as always that everything would be fine. The child, too young to understand, giggled as she waved goodbye to her mother, her tiny hand barely visible from behind the balcony railing.

The market was packed with people. The wife navigated through the crowd, picking up the essentials: rice, dal, vegetables, and a fresh packet of chai patti. She lingered by the sweets counter, thinking of buying some jalebis for the evening, but decided against it, remembering the doctor's advice about cutting down on sugar. As she headed home, she felt a strange sense of urgency, like she needed to get back as soon as possible.

Back at the apartment, the husband was sitting at the dining table, engrossed in his work. The aroma of incense from the nearby temple wafted through the window, mingling with the scent of fresh fruits placed on the kitchen counter.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. The husband, expecting his wife, casually got up to open it. As the door creaked open, she rushed past him, not even sparing a glance, and headed straight for the kitchen. Confused, he followed her, watching as she hurriedly started putting away the groceries.

"Where's the dal? Did I put the rice on the right shelf? The chai patti—make sure you remember where it is," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she moved around the kitchen, pointing at various items.

The husband was taken aback by her behavior. "Why are you telling me all this? You know I can find everything just fine," he said, trying to catch her eye. But she kept moving, not looking at him directly.

"Promise me you'll pick our daughter up from school every day," she continued, her voice softening. "And make sure you iron your shirt properly, and eat on time. Don't forget to feed her, okay?"

The husband frowned, sensing something was off. "What's going on? Why are you talking like this? We do this every day. Nothing's going to change."

She paused for a moment, finally meeting his gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and something he couldn't quite place—was it fear? Sadness? Before he could ask, the phone rang.

"Go answer it," she urged, her tone insistent. "It might be important."

Still puzzled, the husband walked over to the table, his back to her as he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" he answered, his voice steady despite the growing unease in his chest.

"Is this Mr. ...?" The voice on the other end was formal, strained. "This is City Hospital. I'm sorry to inform you, but your wife has been in an accident... She passed away on the way here."

The words hit him like a freight train. "What?" he whispered, his grip on the phone tightening. "That's impossible... She's right here."

The voice continued, but the husband could barely hear it. He turned around slowly, his eyes searching the kitchen for her. The spot where she had stood just moments ago was now empty.

"Can you hear me, sir? I'm very sorry for your loss..." the voice trailed off as the husband's world began to blur.

He dropped the phone, his legs trembling as he sank into the chair. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had just happened. She had been here. He had seen her, heard her voice, felt her presence. Yet, the reality was undeniable.

And then, in the midst of his confusion and sorrow, he heard her voice again, as clear as a bell.

"Take care of our daughter. I love you. Take care of yourself..."

He looked up, his eyes scanning the room one last time. But there was nothing. Only the faint scent of her favorite perfume lingered in the air, a bittersweet reminder of her presence.

Those seven minutes after she had passed had been her final gift to him—a moment to say goodbye, to make sure he would carry on, even in her absence.

The festival outside continued in full swing, but inside the apartment, time had stopped. The husband sat there, surrounded by the echoes of her voice, knowing that she had loved him enough to come back for those last seven minutes.