The early morning light of February 28th bathes the streets of Nashik in a gentle glow as I make my way through the Vishnu Temple beside the river Godavari. The sounds of the morning prayers from the garbh-grih blend with the honking of cars, reminding me of the city’s ability to hold the past and present in a delicate balance. I walk with purpose, yet my steps are hesitant, as if each carries the burden of decisions yet to be made. Meanwhile, Ronit walks on the banks of the Godavari river. The city’s lifeline, which flows with the stories of countless generations, captivates him. He watches as the faithful perform their rituals, immersing themselves in the sacred waters, seeking blessings and purification. The river, a witness to both the city’s ancient rituals and its ever-evolving landscape, reflects Ronit’s own turmoil—caught between the duty to his heritage and the yearning for a future that seems just out of reach. “Why does it feel like we’re trapped by the very traditions that once brought us together?” I ponder. My gaze lingers on the temple spire that rises above the cityscape. *** A Shared Dream In the quiet town of Nashik, nestled among the verdant vineyards and ancient temples, Ronit and I had built a life together filled with love, laughter, and longing. Five years of marriage had deepened our bond, a connection fortified by shared dreams and whispered promises in the night. Yet, amid our happiness, there remained an unfulfilled desire—a child to call our own. We faced the challenge of infertility with resilience that surprised even us. Doctors’ visits, treatments, and countless prayers had become part of our routine, each setback met with renewed determination to keep trying. “We’ll have our miracle, Ankita,” Ronit would say, holding me close, his voice a blend of hope and steadfast belief. And then, one day, our miracle happened. “It’s positive, Ronit! I can’t believe it!” My voice trembled with emotion as I shared the news. The positive pregnancy test in my hand felt like the most precious thing in the world. Ronit, ever the calm presence, swept me into his arms, his own eyes misty. “I knew it,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I always knew our time would come.” The months that followed were a blur of anticipation and preparation. The spare room transformed into a nursery, painted in soft hues of yellow and green. Books on parenting piled up on the coffee table, and our conversations often turned to dreams of the future—of first steps, first words, and the countless firsts we would experience as a family. Then, as winter gave way to spring, our world changed forever. I went into labor on a chilly February morning, the sky outside a pale wash of blue as if heralding the arrival of something extraordinary. At the hospital, as I labored, Ronit was a constant presence by my side, offering words of encouragement, his hand a reassuring weight in mine. “You’re doing amazing, Ankita. Just a little longer, and we’ll meet our baby.” When our daughter was born, the cry that filled the room was the sweetest sound we had ever heard. She arrived on February 29th, a leap year baby, a rarity that seemed to underscore the uniqueness of our journey to parenthood. “She’s perfect,” I whispered, tears of joy streaming down my face as we held our daughter for the first time. The baby, swaddled in a soft blanket, had her father’s eyes and her mother’s smile, a perfect blend of the two people who had waited so patiently for her arrival. “We’ll call her Aarya,” Ronit said, looking down at the tiny face peeking out from the bundle in my arms. “It means hope and nobility. She’s our hope, Ankita.” Aarya’s birthdays became events of unparalleled joy, celebrated with fervor that more than made up for their infrequency. Every four years, we threw a grand party, inviting friends and relatives to share in our happiness. In the years in between, we celebrated too, marking the day in smaller, more intimate ways, but the leap year birthdays remained special—a symbol of the extraordinary circumstances that had brought Aarya into our lives. Life with Aarya was filled with laughter, her presence bringing new light into our home. I often found myself watching my daughter play, a sense of wonder filling my heart. “She’s our miracle,” I would say to Ronit, my hand finding his, our fingers intertwining naturally. Ronit, who had always been the more pragmatic of us, found his world transformed by fatherhood. Returning home from work each day, he looked forward to the sound of Aarya’s laughter, the sight of her running to greet him at the door. One evening, as we put Aarya to bed, I leaned against Ronit, my head resting on his shoulder. “Do you ever think about how different our lives would be if Aarya hadn’t been born on February 29th?” I mused. Ronit kissed the top of my head, his voice reflective. “I think the universe knew. It knew we needed something extraordinary to mark the beginning of our journey as a family. Aarya is not just our daughter; she’s a reminder that miracles happen, that patience and love can bring about wonders.” As we watched Aarya sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her chest was proof of the life we had created together. A Bond Tested The years unfurled like the petals of a blooming flower, each day adding a new layer of love and learning. Aarya grew from a giggling infant into a spirited child, her laughter a constant echo in the warm confines of our home. Life in Nashik, with its blend of the old and the new, provided a rich fabric against which our small family carved out a joyful existence. I had taken to motherhood with a grace that surprised even me. I balanced my career as a school teacher with the demands of parenthood, often weaving stories of my day into lessons of compassion and curiosity for Aarya. “Remember, my love, the world is as big as you dare to dream,” I would say as I tucked Aarya into bed, stories of far-off lands and adventures dancing in the dim light of the night lamp. Ronit, too, found a deeper sense of purpose in his work as a doctor, the nights spent away from home on call made bearable by the thought of the two loves of his life waiting for him. His return each morning was a celebrated ritual, Aarya often leaping into his arms with squeals of “Papa!” that filled our home with warmth and affection. Yet, beneath the surface of our happiness, there lurked the shadows of challenges unspoken. The rarity of Aarya’s birthdays, a source of joy, also became a poignant reminder of the fragility of time. With each leap year that passed, Ronit and I were reminded of the miraculous and precarious nature of our happiness. One ordinary day, which began with the golden hue of the sun casting a gentle glow over Nashik, destiny decided to test the bonds of our love. Aarya, now twelve, had been complaining of a fever since morning, her usually vibrant energy dimmed by illness. “It’s just a little fever, Maa,” Aarya tried to reassure me, her small face flushed. “I’ll be okay.” My brow furrowed with worry, I pressed a cool cloth to Aarya’s forehead. “You need to rest, my heart. Let me see if I can get an early leave from school today. Papa is on call tonight, but we’ll manage.” Ronit, caught in the relentless pace of his duties at the hospital, felt a tug at his heart every time his thoughts drifted to Aarya. He called during a brief respite, his voice laced with concern. “How’s our little warrior doing?” “She’s brave, but the fever hasn’t dropped,” I replied, trying to mask my worry. “I wish you were here, Ronit.” “I know, I know,” Ronit’s voice was heavy with regret. “I’ll try to wrap up as soon as I can. Call me if anything changes, immediately.” But as fate would have it, that night unleashed a torrent of rain upon Nashik, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in years. The streets quickly flooded, and what was usually a straightforward journey home became an ordeal. In our home, as the storm raged outside, Aarya’s condition worsened. My panic rising like a tide within me, I made frantic calls to Ronit. Each call went unanswered due to the chaos at the hospital. By the time Ronit managed to fight his way through the flooded streets, his heart was pounding with fear and frustration. It was too late. Aarya’s room, once filled with laughter and light, was silent. I sat by the bed, her figure shrouded in darkness, a picture of desolation. Aarya was no more. “I tried to reach you,” my voice was a whisper of despair. “She asked for you…she needed you, and you weren’t here.” Ronit, the weight of his absence, a crushing force, had no words to bridge the chasm that had opened between us. The night, with its storm and sorrow, seemed to stretch into eternity, marking the beginning of a rift that would grow with time. “I should have been here,” Ronit would often say, the guilt a constant companion. “I should have saved her.” I, lost in a sea of grief, found it hard to look at Ronit without seeing the shadow of our loss. “We were supposed to protect her together,” I’d reply, my voice devoid of the warmth it once held. “But when she needed us most, we failed her.” The rain washed over Nashik, cleansing the streets but not our broken hearts. Ronit and I grappled with our grief separately, our once unbreakable bond frayed by tragedy. The leap year that had brought us our greatest joy had now marked our deepest sorrow. In the aftermath of that fateful night, the question remained—could a love that had weathered so much withstand the storm of loss? A Rift Created In the wake of Aarya’s untimely demise, the home that once echoed with laughter and warmth turned into a silent proof of our loss. Ronit and I, once inseparable in our love and dreams, found ourselves drifting apart, becoming islands of grief in a sea of sorrow. The days melded into each other, indistinguishable but for the weight of absence each sunrise brought. Ronit threw himself into his work with a fervor that bordered on obsession. The hospital became his refuge, a place where he could lose himself in the care of others, a temporary balm for the guilt that gnawed at him. “If I can save someone else’s child,” he thought, “perhaps it will make up for…” But the thought remained unfinished, too painful to fully acknowledge. I, on the other hand, found solace in solitude. The school, once a place of joy and fulfillment, felt hollow without the stories I would bring home to Aarya. My days were spent wandering through the rooms of our house. Each corner was a cruel reminder of a future stolen. Aarya’s room, with its untouched toys and books, became a place I avoided. The door always closed, a barrier to a past too painful to face. Our conversations, once filled with plans and laughter, were now sparse and functional. “Did you eat?” Ronit would ask. “I’ll be late tonight.” The words hung in the air, devoid of connection, a mere semblance of normalcy. One particularly stark evening, as the monsoon rains once again enveloped Nashik in a watery embrace, Ronit and I found ourselves in the living room, a space that felt too large without Aarya’s presence to fill it. My voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. “We need to talk about Aarya’s things.” It was a hurdle we had avoided, a step neither of us had been ready to take. Ronit looked up, his eyes weary, the lines on his face deeper than I remembered. “I know. I just… It feels like letting go, and I’m not ready to let go of Aarya.” My gaze fell to my hands, folded tightly in my lap. “We’ll never let go of Aarya, Ronit. But we can’t keep living in this… this mausoleum. It’s not healthy. For either of us.” The word hung between us, a stark acknowledgment of the chasm that grief had created. Ronit moved to sit beside me, the proximity a reminder of a time when comfort was found in each other’s presence. “I miss her, Ankita. Every moment of every day, it’s like I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to stop it.” My tears, long held back, finally broke free. “I miss her too. I miss us, Ronit. I miss feeling like I’m not alone in this grief.” The dam breached. We allowed ourselves to mourn together for the first time since that fateful night. Words of sorrow and regret flowed freely, a cathartic release of pent-up emotions. Yet, even as we shared this moment of vulnerability, the foundation of our relationship had been irrevocably altered. In the days that followed, the conversation about Aarya’s belongings acted as a catalyst for deeper reflections on our future. It became increasingly clear that our paths, once so intertwined, were diverging. Ronit, feeling the weight of his absence on that night as a barrier he couldn’t cross, began to withdraw further. “Maybe you’d be better off without me, Ankita,” he murmured one evening, the words cutting through the fragile thread of our connection. My heart, aching with a mixture of sorrow and resignation, couldn’t find the words to dispute him. The shared grief that had once united us now seemed to push us further apart. “It’s not just about that night, Ronit. It’s been about every day since. We’re not… We’re not healing together. We’re just… existing. Apart.” The decision to separate, when it came, felt like the last leaf falling from a tree long bereft of life. It was made not in anger, but in a profound sense of loss—a mutual acknowledgment that our love, though deep and true, had been irrevocably altered by our shared tragedy. Ronit moved out. Our marriage fell apart. The physical distance was a mere reflection of the emotional gap that had grown between us. Our conversations, now even more infrequent, were tinged with a politeness that belied the depth of our shared history. As the seasons changed, marking the passage of time in a world that seemed indifferent to our loss, Ronit and I navigated our separate lives. Each carrying the weight of what had been and the shadow of what might have been. The leap year that had once symbolized our greatest joy had become a marker of our deepest sorrow, a reminder of the fragility of happiness and the unpredictable nature of fate. Whispers of the Past The months following my separation from Ronit unfolded like a landscape without color. Each day served as a reminder of the life we once shared. The pain of Aarya’s absence was a constant reminder, a shadow that lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces where her laughter should have been. I found myself teaching less and less, my passion for my work dulled by the absence of the one I had loved sharing her stories with the most. My evenings were spent in solitude, the walls of my home adorned with memories that seemed to mock me with their vibrancy. I often found myself sitting in Aarya’s room, now a shrine to the daughter I could no longer hold. “I miss you, my little star,” I would whisper into the silence, half hoping for a sign, a whisper of the presence I felt but could not see. Ronit’s refuge in his work began to crumble as well. The hospital halls became reminders of his failure to save the one person who mattered most. His interactions with patients became mechanical, the warmth he once took pride in replaced by a cold efficiency. At night, he returned to his empty apartment, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of his thoughts. “How did we get here, Aarya?” Ronit would ask the empty room, the weight of his solitude pressing down on him. Despite our separation, Ronit and I were bound by the unspoken grief that neither could escape. Our dreams were haunted by visions of Aarya, so vivid that waking felt like losing her all over again. One night, I dreamt of Aarya standing in a field of marigolds, her laughter ringing clear and true. “Maa, you need to find Papa,” she said, her voice a balm to my aching heart. “He’s lost without us.” Ronit, too, was visited by dreams of Aarya. His usually restless sleep was interrupted by images of his daughter, her eyes filled with a wisdom beyond her years. “Papa, Maa is sad. She needs you,” Aarya implored in Ronit’s dreams, her hand reaching out to him across the void. The dreams left us both shaken, a sense of urgency growing in our hearts. It was as if Aarya herself was guiding us, a beacon in the darkness of our grief. Driven by the haunting clarity of my dream, I reached out to Ronit. My fingers hesitated over the keys before finally typing the message, “Can we meet? There’s something we need to discuss.” Ronit’s response was immediate, a simple “Yes.” We chose a neutral place, a café we had once frequented as a family, its familiarity a bittersweet backdrop to our meeting. I arrived first, my hands trembling as I waited, the enormity of the moment pressing down on me. When Ronit arrived, the sight of him was a jolt to my heart, a mixture of pain and something else, something I couldn’t quite name. We greeted each other awkwardly, the years of intimacy reduced to polite formalities. “I’ve been dreaming of Aarya,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper. “She… she told me I need to find you.” Ronit’s eyes widened, a spark of something like hope flickering in their depths. “I’ve seen her too, in my dreams.” The admission hung between us, a bridge across the chasm our grief had created. “Do you think… Do you think she’s trying to tell us something?” Ronit asked, the skeptic in him silenced by the raw need to believe. A Twist of Fate The café meeting marked a turning point for Ronit and me, a delicate bridge over turbulent waters. In the weeks that followed, we navigated the complexities of reconciliation. Each encounter was a step towards understanding and, perhaps, forgiveness. It felt as if Aarya’s spirit watched over us, her presence a gentle nudge towards the healing we both desperately sought. One afternoon, as the monsoon clouds gathered, heralding the arrival of rains that had once torn our world apart, Ronit visited the home we had once shared. This house, once a symbol of our estrangement, now felt like a sanctuary, a place where we could piece together the fragments of our shattered past. We engaged in long conversations. About unexpected things, about Aarya, and about us. The conversation meandered, touching on memories, moments of joy, and pain, until I broached the subject that had been weighing heavily on my heart. “Ronit, do you ever think about… trying again? Not just us, but… a family?” The question hung in the air, charged with a multitude of unspoken emotions. Ronit set his cup down, his hands steady despite the inner turmoil. “I’ve thought about it,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m scared, Ankita. Scared of losing again, scared of the pain, even after three years have passed.” I reached across the table, my hand finding his. “I’m scared too. But I also feel like… like Aarya would want this for us. To live, to love, to maybe even find happiness again.” Our eyes met, a silent understanding passing between us. It was a monumental decision, fraught with the potential for both joy and heartache. Yet, in that moment, fortified by the memory of our daughter and the dreams that seemed to be her legacy, we found the courage to consider a future we had once deemed impossible. As we rebuilt our relationship, the idea of remarrying emerged not just as a symbol of our love but as a homage to Aarya. ***** Leap year approaches again. Four years have passed since we lost our daughter Aarya, and we have been living separately. The pain of loss feels more intense on the leap year than in other years. Ronit and I are at the Vishnu temple for Aarya’s love memorial arrangement on the evening of February 28th. This is the first leap year after Aarya’s passing. We have arranged a charity event in our child’s name, not only to honor Aarya’s memory but also to represent a leap of love — turning our grief into a force for good in the world. Ronit and I are sitting with the temple’s Pujari Jee, a respected figure in the community known for his deep understanding of Hindu scriptures and his progressive outlook. He often counsels people on the importance of dharma and the complexities of modern relationships. Pujari Jee sighs, understanding the depth of our conflict, “Our Hindu culture and your janam-patri do not allow what you and Ronit want,” he says flatly. “Your past sorrow, which no one should bear, casts a long shadow on your future actions, one that I fear may darken the auspices of remarriage. The circumstances are deemed inauspicious.” “But Pujari Jee…” Ronit asks curiously. “Isn’t there a way to mitigate this problem? Please show us a way to heal, to reunite our souls in this life.” Ronit whispers, the flickering flame casting shadows of hope and despair on his face. “There’s no clear spiritual or societal path in this alliance. I am sorry, Ronit,” Pujari Jee candidly replies. Ronit and I are unsure how to proceed or whether our union would be blessed or cursed again. This guilt is a barrier to considering our togetherness, as we grapple with our feelings and question the appropriateness of our desires. “The birth of your daughter on such a rare day and losing her is a bad omen,” Pujari Jee continues. “Your subsequent separation must have been a trial for your souls. The profound love you two share is also remarkable.” “There has to be a lesson, a remedy in dharma that can lead us back to each other,” I question the sacred text open before Pujari Jee, seeking answers in its ancient wisdom. “Yes, there is one,” Pujari Jee answers. “But this is a very short time frame. The leap day is rare, a day outside the usual cycle of time, considered auspicious for new beginnings and renewal. This coming leap day, which is tomorrow, let’s organize a special puja, not just in memory of Aarya’s birthday, but as a ceremony of renewal for you both, invoking Lord Vishnu’s blessings.” My eyes meet Ronit’s. A glimmer of hope rekindles between us. The family Pujari, well-versed in the Vedic scriptures and nuances of Hindu traditions, comes up with a remedy. The resolution comes unexpectedly. Pujari Jee details a ceremony that would take place on February 29th, involving rituals that seek the gods’ blessings for our reunion, “It’s a very short window of time on February 29th when, in the Rahu Nakshatra, your and Ronit’s stars are aligned in the right direction. Your remarriage has to be precisely during that time window. Are you willing to take the love leap together in that time frame?” “We will do anything…anything for us, for our daughter Aarya,” Ronit and I murmur in unison. _______________ It’s February 29th today. We reach the temple early in the morning, as the time frame for the ritual is 10:00 AM to 11:15 AM. Ronit and I are surrounded by our community, friends, and family members. The air is filled with the scent of incense and the sounds of sacred chants. The ceremony, rich with rituals of purification, offerings, and prayers, is a profound act of faith and love. Ronit and I are dressed in traditional attire. We sit side by side for the first time in four years, performing rituals that symbolize a journey of forgiveness, acceptance, and hope. With Pujari Jee’s guidance, Ronit and I perform the Sankalpa, setting our intentions for our remarriage. We circle the sacred fire. We take Saptapadi (the seven steps), each step a vow renewed, each promise a proof of our enduring love and the divine grace that allows us to transcend our past. Ronit and I take the love leap together. My heart is heavy with four years of grief and separation but has begun to feel the weight lift, if only slightly. __ Glossary: Sankalpa – is a concept in Indian philosophy and yoga, referring to an intention or resolve. Pujari Jee – The hindu temple priest. Janam-Patri – Birth chart or horoscope of a person in Vedic astrology Garbh-grih – innermost sanctum of a Hindu temple where the primary deity of the temple is housed.