HE STORY OF YOJNA SHIVASHANKAR
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Yojna Shivashankar was born in a small Brahmin household, the eldestof two daughters, her house always smelt of coffee, incense, books, devotion and discipline. Her father, a mathematics professor, and her mother, a hindi teacher, raised their daughters with one mantra: “Vidya hi sampatti hai” knowledge is the only wealth.
Then came Nishant.
Fair, magnetic, with a smile that could melt resistance, Nishant entered the engineering college like he owned the world. He sang, he danced, he played the guitar, he joked with professors and flirted with destiny. Girls turned when he passed, laughter followed him like perfume.
And yet, he noticed her.
Yojna, the quiet girl in the third row, scribbling notes even when others chatted and had fun..
se never sought attention, and perhaps that’s why she got his.
He started to sitting near her, borrowing notes, asking for help before exams. Slowly, she began smiling more, speaking more.
He took her out for chai near the bus stand; she hesitated, but went. For the first time in her life, Yojna was seen not for her marks, but for her presence.
he chose her because he was smart, he wanted someone who is not like him, he was smelling stability in her, a homemaker, not so demanding wife, a submissive girl , easy to handle to manipulate.....
Opposites attracted like day and dusk.
He was flamboyant; she was grounded.
He spoke in song; she in silence.
He believed in charm; she in karma.
Their love bloomed quietly between semesters and stage performances.
When Nishant sang on college day, she was the only one he looked at in the crowd.
But when love entered, so did resistance.
Her parents, strict traditionalists, couldn’t bear the idea “A boy from a different community? A classmate?” They called it rebellion. Yojna called it destiny. And for the first time in her obedient life, she chose her heart over her home.
She left her parents for him, she married Nishant.
Life began modestly two young engineers, two salaries, one rented house.
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She was a civil engineer, designing buildings that touched the sky.
He was a software engineer, building codes that touched the world.
But soon, his job took him places. Flights, client dinners, luxury hotels, laughter-filled office parties. Her's kept her on dusty sites under harsh sun.
She still looked at him with awe, her Nishant, her dream boy.
Then came Samvriddhi, their daughter, the blessing they both wanted.
And years later, Sagar, their son, was born when she was in her mid-thirties.
But fate had its quiet turns.
Sagar was different.
He didn’t respond like other children. Doctors said he was on the spectrum.
The rhythm of their marriage began to change.
Yojna quit her job to care for Sagar; Nishant worked harder to sustain them.
She lived among therapy sessions, meltdowns, routines, and patience.
He lived in airports, hotels, and deadlines.
Whenever he came home, she needed a break, a salon visit, an hour of silence, a walk to remember herself.
But for Nishant, homecoming began to feel like punishment from spotlights to dim rooms, from compliments to complaints.
His laughter became rarer.
Her silence became heavier.
He still joked with his juniors, still had admirers, and still played the guitar sometimes at office retreats. People said “Nishant hasn’t changed at all!”
But Yojna knew he had.
Or maybe… they both had.
She had once fallen in love with the hero everyone admired.
Now she lived with the man no one really knew
Marriage, for Yojna, had become a ritual of packing and unpacking.
Every Friday evening, she would wait for the sound of the doorbell Nishant returning home after a week of travel. He came in with a bright smile, a bag full of laundry, and stories of conferences and client dinners.
Her weekends were spent washing, folding, arranging, and repacking his life.
Clean shirts, matching socks, ironed trousers all ready for another few days away.
What began as care slowly turned into caretaking.
She wasn’t his wife anymore she was the caretaker of three children:
Samvriddhi, Sagar, and Nishant.
The home had become a transit point for him.
And for her, it was a prison of unending chores and invisible emotions.
She tried protesting first gently, then with words that trembled from exhaustion.
But Nishant, now used to applause outside the home, couldn’t tolerate complaints inside it.
He called her “negative,” “boring,” and “always nagging.”
Their togetherness shrank into small arguments and long silences.
The bed became a boundary line.
Nishant’s world was expanding: foreign trips, promotions, parties, and new faces.
And with expansion came temptation.
What began as harmless flirtations with colleagues and hotel receptionists soon crossed the line.
One-night stands became his way of “unwinding.”
He convinced himself it was harmless, that he “deserved” some happiness after the stress.
Yojna, on the other hand, was living in a loop. Therapy sessions for Sagar, school projects for Samvriddhi, grocery lists, power cuts, loneliness.
She longed for one weekend where they could sit and talk really talk not about bills, not about schedules, but about them.
But Nishant wasn’t listening.
He was now at the peak of his career,
A high salary, global exposure, professional admiration. Women at work adored his charm, his confidence, his success.
He loved the attention; it was his new oxygen.
“A man who needs applause to feel alive is already half dead.”
He had forgotten that success without balance is failure in disguise.
And a man who needs the world to tell him he is great has already lost touch with his truth.
For Nishant, home was a burden.
For Yojna, home was her world.
Two people living under the same roof one escaping it, the other holding it together.
The problem with Nishant was never lack of intelligence.
It was excess of self-importance.
At work, he was treated like royalty. Colleagues deferred to him, juniors admired him, bosses tolerated his arrogance because he delivered results. He lived in that rhythm of command, of control, of constant victory.
He fought his way up, stepping over rivals, manipulating systems, charming his way into leadership.
But the tragedy of men like Nishant is this they forget that the strategies that win in boardrooms destroy in bedrooms.
He began to treat home like another battlefield.
He wanted to “win” arguments.
He wanted to “prove” his point.
He wanted to “dominate” decisions.
He was so used to being the king outside that he came home expecting to be worshipped inside.
He never lifted a finger for household chores laundry, kids’ homework, groceries all were beneath him.
He believed that providing wealth was enough a roof over their heads, good schools, a car, vacations. He gave them a free hand to spend money and thought that was the highest form of service.
He didn’t realize that money cannot buy the currency of respect.
For a man to be revered, to be loved, to have his masculinity honored, he has to participate in the life he creates.
He has to sit on the floor and play with his children.
He has to wash a few plates, help with homework, listen to his wife’s silent tears, and ask her, “Are you okay?” not out of duty, but affection.
That is how a man becomes the true head of the family not by earning the most, but by giving the most of himself.
But Nishant, blinded by his corporate glory, forgot that simple truth.
He mistook power for respect.
He mistook wealth for worth.
He mistook dominance for love.
He didn’t understand that what children cherish are moments, not money.
They won’t remember the branded shoes he bought, but the evenings he spent teaching them to ride a bicycle.
They won’t remember the bank balance, but the bedtime stories, the laughter at dinner, the warmth of his presence.
Wealth can vanish overnight in a storm, a stock crash, a gamble, or even a careless mistake.
But love, laughter, and shared memories those no thief can steal, no fate can erase.
Yojna often sat by the window at night, watching the city lights, thinking:
“He’s building empires outside, but he’s losing his kingdom inside.”
The great Nishant, who once sang to her in college, now couldn’t even look her in the eye.
The man who had once said “You are my peace” had now become the reason for her unrest.
And in that quiet realization, something broke inside Yojna not in rage, but in deep, silent clarity.
She began to see the difference between a successful man and a fulfilled one.
Nishant was the first..... her goal was to learn to become the second.
The fracture had begun.
It was invisible, but irreversible.
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to be continued............
