Abhimaan

 They say when you translate something into a different language—say, from one of the Indian languages to English—it loses its punch. The depth, the essence, the very soul of the word gets diluted in translation, much like tea left to steep too long, turning bitter instead of fragrant.

Certainly. Indeed. Language is not just about words; it carries culture, history, and emotion. One such word that English has failed to capture is Abhimaan. It’s not exactly pride, not exactly ego, and certainly not quite anger. It is softer, more tender, almost like an unspoken ache—a longing for the one you love to recognize your hurt, to come searching for you, to bridge the silence with an understanding glance.

Yesterday, on our way to get groceries, my wife and I—married for nearly thirty years—had a disagreement. No, not even that. A mere difference of opinion, as trivial as whether we should get the organic or the regular tomatoes. But in long marriages, even the most trivial things can carry the weight of a history filled with love, companionship, and a million small sacrifices. And so, as it often happens, we both withdrew into silence.

Back home, I retreated into my kingdom—the basement. My refuge. It’s where I work, read, and indulge in my small rebellions—an occasional drink, a sneaky smoke, always ensuring the ventilation is just right. My wife stayed in our bedroom upstairs, her workspace in our suburban New Jersey home where we now lived as empty nesters. Our children had flown the nest, carving their own lives elsewhere.

But don’t mistake us for weary old souls. No, we still have fire in us. I still believe I could set off on a grand adventure, traversing deserts and lost civilizations like Indiana Jones, and she—she still has the beauty to make heads turn, looking every bit like Rani Mukherjee in her prime. And I? I love my wife.

She had an appointment she couldn’t avoid, and I—being the tech geek that I am—monitored her departure. The moment she left, I took care of the things she would usually remind me about. I walked our dogs, fed them, grabbed a quick bite, and then… I waited.

Waited for her to come home. Waited for her to look for me.

And she did.

That was all it took.

A few minutes after returning, she came downstairs, pretending she needed something. She didn’t say anything about the silence that had lingered between us all day. She didn’t ask why I had buried myself in work, or why I hadn’t come up on my own. Instead, she stood at the door and said, “The dogs wouldn’t eat properly. Did you feed them too early?”

It was a small thing. A pretext. But I knew what it meant.

That is abhimaan.

Not anger. Just the quiet yearning of the heart, the longing for the other person to reach out first.

It reminded me of that classic Manna Dey Bengali song:

"Eto raag noi, eito abhimaan… E shudhu barai moner taan."

This is not anger. This is abhimaan. This is the pull of the heart, a quiet call to be understood, to be sought after.

I smiled to myself as I stood up, brushing invisible dust off my jeans. “They ate just fine,” I said, following her up the stairs.

The silence was over. And love—unspoken, ever resilient—remained.