Shankar sat on the old wooden bench outside his workshop, absently rubbing his rough, unshaven chin. The bright sparks of welding had once lit up his face, but now it was worn, lined with worry. He had battled difficult customers, unpaid bills, and broken machines, but this was different. This was a fight he knew he could not win.

Thirty years ago, he married Lakshmi—a name straight out of mythology, the goddess of prosperity wedded to Lord Shankar. Their union was no less sacred. She had studied two grades higher than him and managed their home with quiet efficiency, raising three daughters and a son. Shankar welded his way to respectability, shaping metal and fate alike. A small home, a good name in town, the quiet satisfaction of a life well spent—he had it all.

Then, disaster struck.

It started with a sore throat. Lakshmi ignored it. The local doctor dismissed it as an ulcer. In Chandrapur, they kept her for days without answers. Frustrated, Shankar brought her to our hospital. A swollen lymph node raised suspicion. The biopsy confirmed it—cancer. 

Clinging to hope, he took her to the big cancer hospitals in Nagpur.  They were known for their expert doctors and advanced machines. Shankar believed that if cancer could be cured anywhere, it would be there. 

He spent money he didn’t have, waiting for a doctor to tell him something different. But the tests only brought worse news. Scans, biopsies, and blood tests all said the same thing.

It had started in her throat, spread to her lymph nodes, and was already too late. Six rounds of chemotherapy, then radiation—thirty draining sessions. 

Stronger drugs, more hospital stays. She vomited, grew weaker, lay still for hours. 

The tumor shrank, hope flickered, then another scan—more cancer. It had spread to her spine, liver, even her eyes. 

Six months later, she was just 34 kilos—a frail shadow of herself. 

She couldn’t bathe, dress, or walk without help. She couldn’t eat on her own. Nights brought on breathlessness. The world beyond her doorstep ceased to exist; she left home only for hospital visits.

Neighbours kept their distance. Family stopped visiting. Shankar shut his workshop. His world became Lakshmi’s bedside. He bathed her, dressed her, fed her through a tube. He cleaned her wounds, changed her diapers, massaged her aching legs. A nurse, a husband, a shadow of himself. He did everything a nurse would do—and more. Always gentle, always patient.

And he never complained. He never spoke of his own exhaustion, his empty pockets, his fear of what lay ahead. He only asked, “Doctor, what more can we do?”

His life now revolved around a single purpose—caring for Lakshmi.

One day, her abdomen swelled—the cancer had blocked her intestines. Surgery was too risky. “She may not survive,” we warned him. He didn’t hesitate. “Do whatever you can.” 

By some miracle, her intestines started moving again. But soon, pus-filled pockets formed in her back. Surgeons drained the infection. She seemed better, for a while.

She got worse. The ICU left her confused and took away her sleep. She felt lonely, with no one to talk to. We decided to move her to the palliative care ward. The ICU no longer served her needs. We hoped the palliative care ward would bring peace. It did. Morphine eased her pain. The nurses gently cared for her wounds. The residents’ kind words gave her comfort.

Everyone knew death was near. No one—doctors, nurses, or Shankar—tried to stand in the way. Nobody attempted to fight death. They all accepted that when it comes, the right thing to do is nothing.

Thus, in the quiet hours of the morning, in the palliative care ward, with Shankar by her side, Lakshmi slipped away.

Shankar had not slept for days. Yet, in those final moments, he sat by her, holding her hand, whispering to her. His own needs—rest, food, a moment of peace—had long ceased to matter. 

At home, he was always by her side. He helped her off the bed, walked her to the auto-rickshaw, found a seat for her on the bus, and brought her to the hospital. He registered her name, got her blood tests done, took her to the scan center, paid the bills, bought medicines, and waited for hours outside the OPDs. When she was finally admitted, he did everything—feeding her, cleaning her, arranging tests, fetching reports.

It was not just about love or duty. He had to prove—to doctors, relatives, and society—that he was a devoted husband, that he cared enough. The expectations were endless.

A true caregiver. Committed, tireless, selfless. But at what cost?

Working in the palliative care unit, I have seen how much attention we give to the patient. The caregiver fades into the background—exhausted, sleepless, breaking a little more each day, yet never showing it.

Society expects them to endure. It is their ‘duty,’ after all. They must not rest, watch a film, or attend a wedding. They exist only to care, and care, and care—without a sigh, without a pause.

Who said caregiving is easy? It is lonely, relentless, and unseen. And too often, the caregiver is left with nothing but grief and silence.