An Unexpected Journey of Permanent Loss

A Daughter-in-Law’s Story

The Tears Left Unwiped

The Soul That Did Not Allow It to Go in Permanence

Opening

The rain had begun in a soft drizzle, tapping gently on the tin shades of the modest house in Jammu where the Raina family had rebuilt their life after migrating from Kashmir in the early nineties.

The courtyard, once filled with the laughter of children and the fragrance of Kashmiri Mogul Chai and Kandur lavasa, Girdas, etc., and now echoed only with the slow, haunting notes of funeral rites. In the centre of the yard, under a faded shamiana, a pale-yellow coffin rested on two wooden benches. Around it sat relatives of the Raina and Wali families—heads bowed, shoulders trembling—mourning a loss far too heavy for words.

She was only twenty-five. Our “bahu”

Divya Wali Raina—the gentle sweet daughter-in-law who had come into the family like a blessing—was gone.

From the first day of her marriage to Ajay Kumar Raina, performed at the Vadyas Palace on Akhnoor Road, Jammu, with all the joy and bustle typical of a Kashmiri Pandit wedding, she had won every heart.

With her soft-spoken, heartfelt words and the ever-charming smile on her face, she was the most blessed soul in the family.

The Raina elders would often say with pride, “Divya is Sheen—pure as fresh snow, soft in speech, and warm in spirit. Ajay is fortunate, and so are we.”

For more than three beautiful years after their marriage, Divya and Ajay lived like a modern Sita–Ram Ki jodi, devoted, affectionate, grounded, tender and caring towards the entire family.

Both families met often, celebrating birthdays, Navreh, marriages, and even small Sunday lunches that made exile life feel less lonely. It was God’s grace and blessings of revered Jagatguru Bhagwan Gopinath Ji Maharaj.

No one could ever believe or imagine that the bond built with love, faith, and culture would be torn apart so suddenly and shockingly, like a holocaust on the entire fraternity of this mutual love and affection.

No body knew that it will be so soon that the times of happiness and prosperity of a healthy relationship would end, and merriment would turn into the ugliest, saddest emotion anybody on this land of theirs could imagine.

And the shadows of the devil played their part, and on that fateful night, everything changed.

The Tragedy

Divya had clutched her stomach, tears running down her face as a sharp, unbearable pain surged through her body. By the time the family rushed her to the nearest hospital, she was already too weak and had almost fell unconscious with the unbearable pain.

Things turned ugly so fast. The premature baby in the mother’s womb never cried, and the worst happened. Divya slipped away without even opening her eyes.

The Wali family collapsed in shock, and then the Raina family broke in despair.

Kamla Raina, her mother-in-law, shocked and pained with this whole unexpected tragedy, fainted twice, screaming her name, “Meri beti, Divya beti, where have you gone forever? Please open your eyes, talk to me”, taking her daughter-in-law’s name and anxious to know where she had gone in this state of shock.

Ajay, her husband, in a state of shock and despair, the young widower, sat like a man whose world had been shattered in a single breath.

When the time came to lift the silent body, eight strong young men from the community—boys who had played cricket in the same lanes, who had grown up celebrating the same festivals—stepped forward.

They positioned themselves carefully, whispering prayers under their breath.

But something strange happened.

No matter how hard they tried, the body lying in the coffin, and the load of the coffin itself, did not allow them to lift it with ease.

Again they tried, but they were clueless, unable to lift it as it became so heavy. Their hands slipped, their muscles cramped, faces flushed red, but the coffin remained rooted to the ground, as if held back by an invisible force.

An elderly Kashmiri Pandit, a well-respected neighbour who had seen many tragedies in exile, murmured, in Kashmiri, meaning, “Our child is not ready to leave.”

A spiritual elder from the community, who had come to offer prayers, spoke softly, “Open the coffin. She may still have something to say.” Silence fell.

With trembling fingers, the men unlocked the bolt and slowly lifted the lid.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Divya’s face looked serene—but two fresh trails of tears marked her cheeks. Her eyelashes were still moist, as if she had just cried moments before. Kamla Raina collapsed beside the coffin, her voice breaking into sobs as she took Divya’s cold hand into her own. “Meri pyari beti… my child… why are you crying alone? If your soul has something to tell us, say it. Don’t carry this pain with you… please…”The courtyard froze. Time itself seemed to stop for a while. Even the rain slowed to a whisper. Then, in the heavy silence, a muffled sob emerged from behind. It was Ajay, the young widower, who had fallen to his knees, his face buried in his palms, shaking uncontrollably.  

His father rushed to hold him, but Ajay stepped back, trembling, tears spilling onto the wet earth.

Kamla looked at him, terrified, and said, “Ajay, my son… what is it? Did Divya… did she, say anything to you?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, red, and filled with an agony no words could measure.

His voice broke as he whispered—

PART I:  Ajay’s Journey Through Grief

Ajay, this young widower, was learning to breathe again. The days after the cremation passed in a haze. The house in Tawi Vihar, once warm with Divya’s laughter, had now fallen into a silence heavy enough to choke and suffocate.

For weeks, Ajay woke up as if pulled from a nightmare. He would turn his head toward the right side of the bed only to see the empty pillow. The absence felt louder than any sound. Some nights, he would open the wardrobe just to inhale her scent.

Her dupatta, her graceful pashmina shawl, her perfumes, the silver-bell jhumkas they had bought together—everything remained exactly where she had left it. Untouched. Waiting.

But she would never return. The Wali family visited often, trying to console him, but their own eyes were red and swollen. Two families bound not by blood, but by shared sorrow.

A month later, Ajay returned to work, but he could not focus. He stared at the computer screen, unable to type a single line of code. Friends tried to take him out, but he would return even quieter, the world feeling too noisy without her voice in it.

One evening, while clearing Divya’s cupboard, Kamla found a small blue notebook tied with a golden thread. On the cover, in Divya’s delicate handwriting, were the words, “My Sacred Moments.”

Kamla froze. Her hands trembled.

She walked to Ajay’s room and silently placed the diary in front of him.

“This may help you heal,” she whispered. Ajay held it to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

That night, for the first time since her passing, he lit a diya in front of Divya’s photograph.

He opened the diary slowly…

And Divya’s voice came alive again.

PART II: Divya’s Diary

Her secret entries, the words she never got to say aloud.

Entry 1: The Day After the Wedding

Noida — 14^th February

Ajay keeps asking me if I am happy.

How do I tell him I have never been happier?

His mother kissed my forehead before bedtime today.

I felt like I had stepped into a home, not a house.

I pray that I can give this family the love they deserve

—

Entry 2: First Month in Tawi Vihar

Jammu — 8^th March

I made noon-chai in the afternoon and served it with crisp Kashmiri katlam for everyone today!

Mummyji said it tasted “just like Kashmir.”

That is the best compliment I could have asked for.

Ajay and I took a walk along the Tawi river at sunset. He says he wants to take me to Srinagar one day. I hope that day comes soon

—

Entry 3: A Secret Fear

27^th June

Sometimes I feel scared. Life is so beautiful… what if it slips away too fast?

I hold Ajay’s hand tightly at night, afraid of losing this warmth.

—

Entry 4: The Festival of Navreh

2^nd April

I prepared the thaal on my own this year. Everyone praised me.

Ajay, my love smiled the whole day. I feel like a real Raina now.

—

Entry 5.: The Day She Found Out She Was Pregnant

15^th January

Today, I found out there is a new heartbeat inside me. Ajay cried. Literally cried.

He hugged me for so long, I could feel his heart beating against mine.

I already love this little life.

So, so much.

—

Entry 6: Her Last Entry

Written 3 Days Before the Tragedy – 4^th May

I feel weak these days… Strangely worried. But I don’t want to scare him, my buddy, Ajay. He has so many dreams for us. I want to stay with him forever.

If anything, ever happens to me—which I pray never does— I want Ajay to be strong. And I want mummyji to know: “I have always felt like your daughter, not your daughter-in-law.” I will never leave this home. Not even if my body gives up. My love will stay. Always.

Ajay Discovers The Truth

When Ajay finished reading, he just closed the diary against his heart. For the first time in weeks, he cried not out of helplessness, but out of love.

He placed the diary beside her photo, lit an incense stick, and whispered:

“Divya… you never left.”

And slowly—very slowly—something inside him began to heal.

—

PART III: A Spiritual Message of Healing For Both Families

The bridge between grief and acceptance.

That Sunday, both families gathered at the small temple near the Tawi river.

The head priest, an elderly Kashmiri Pandit who had seen three decades of exile and pain, spoke gently:

“Children,” he said, “listen to me. A soul does not die. Only the body does.” He placed his hand on Ajay’s shoulder. “Divya is now in a place where there is no pain, no fear, no separation. She is not gone—she has simply moved into a room you cannot enter right now.”

Then he turned to both families and said: “Grief is not a sign of weakness; grief is love that has nowhere to go.”

Mummyji and Papaji wept openly.

The Wali family held their hands. The priest continued, ”If you want her soul to be at peace, do not grieve alone, Share her memories. Celebrate her life. Let her name bring smiles, not tears.”

Ajay looked at both sets of parents and quietly said: “We will heal… together. Divya belonged to all of us.”

And from that day, both families made one promise. Every year on Divya’s birthday, they would gather, cook her favourite dishes, and light a diya for her. They would sponsor the education of a girl-child in her name. They would keep her diary safe—as their sacred inheritance.

Slowly, laughter returned to the Raina home, though gentler now. Slowly, Ajay found the strength to live again.

Slowly, the Wali family began to smile, knowing their daughter’s love was alive in every corner of that home.

And somewhere—somewhere beyond the veil of this world— Divya smiled too.

Her tears had finally dried. Her soul was finally at peace.

Epilogue

The story of Divya Wali Raina became more than a tale of loss. It became a testament to the enduring power of love—a love that transcends death, family boundaries, and the deepest of sorrows. In the hearts of those who knew her, Divya never truly left. She lived on in every memory, every diary entry, every tear shed in remembrance, and every act of kindness performed in her name.

For the Raina and Wali families, exile was no longer marked only by the displacement from Kashmir. It was now marked by the presence of Divya’s love—a love that made permanence out of loss, and brought healing from grief.

Amen.