Partners, Not Just Husband and Wife

By Parambrahma Tripathy 

It was the morning of 31st July. 6.20 a.m. The day I lost my partner—Chinmayee. To the world, she was my wife. To me, she was far more. We had a word for each other—“partner.” When I wrote a farewell note saying “Bye Partner”, many could not understand. Some even asked: why would a husband call his wife a partner? That single word, however, held the truth of our life together.

Other half of my strength...

Marriage often comes wrapped in titles—husband, wife, homemaker, breadwinner. But for us, it was never about titles. We carried each other through storms, shared failures, raised a child, and bore witness to each other’s vulnerabilities. What else is a partner if not that? She was my fellow traveler, the other half of my strength, the one who chose to walk beside me through the mess and beauty of life.

Her absence now is unbearable. Our twelve-year-old son and I knew, somewhere in the corners of our minds, that this day would come. Since 2018, she had been under treatment for her hemoglobin and red blood cell issues. The doctors had warned us of complications. But warnings and realities are two different beasts. You can be told a hundred times that death will come, yet when it does, your heart refuses to accept. Knowing and accepting are never the same.

‘Papa, can we donate mama’s organs?’

I sat by her bedside in the ICU, counting her breaths, wishing my strength could pass into her veins. That morning, after Kunu was told his mama was no more, he turned to me and whispered, “Papa, can we donate mama’s organs?” His voice trembled with innocence, hope, and a child’s instinctive kindness. He didn’t know that her organs could not be donated, that multiple organ failure had already made it impossible. But in that moment, my heart broke and healed at the same time. He wanted his mother’s last act to be of giving. He had inherited her compassion. That was her true legacy.

Chinmayee herself had registered as an organ donor. She was always thinking beyond her own life, about how even her departure could bring light to someone else’s darkness. That was who she was—a woman of silent strength, unshaken by the turbulence around her. Since 2011, she had stood by me, a wandering writer with no fixed schedules, a vagabond chasing words, ideas, and causes. Many would have given up on such a partner. She never did. She believed in me even when I failed to believe in myself.

Loss teaches you that love never leaves...

People say grief gets easier with time. I am not sure. Right now, it feels like a wound that will not close. I see her face in every corner of the house. I hear her in our son’s voice, in the way he insists on small rituals she loved—watering the plants, arranging books, or keeping her sarees neatly folded. Loss teaches you that love never leaves; it only changes form.

Yet the world still asks: why partner, not wife? Perhaps because “wife” is too small a word for what she was. A wife can be defined by law, society, and religion. A partner can only be defined by love. A wife may live in your house; a partner lives in your soul. A wife may fulfill duties; a partner shares burdens. A wife may walk behind or ahead; a partner walks beside.

That is why I want to tell couples everywhere: let us be partners, not just husbands and wives. Let us drop the language of ownership and adopt the language of companionship. In the end, what we remember are not roles but the bond—the way she smiled when I came home late, the way we argued over trivial things and then made tea together, the way she sat quietly when I was lost in my words. These are not duties of a wife; these are gifts of a partner.

Our son now teaches me courage. He still asks about her—sometimes softly, sometimes through tears. And yet he shows resilience far beyond his age. Children have a strange wisdom. They can hold grief without letting it crush them. He keeps her alive in small ways, reminding me that love, once given, never dies.

I often think of her final days, of how even as her body weakened, her spirit never surrendered. There is dignity in such strength. She showed me what it means to live with grace, even in suffering. And now, in her absence, she teaches me again—how to carry love without touch, how to remember without despair.

People may never fully understand why I chose the word partner. But I will keep saying it. Because that is what she was. Because that is what I wish every couple could become. Life is uncertain. Illness can arrive uninvited. Death does not ask permission. What stays with us, what outlives even the cruelest parting, is the partnership—the invisible thread of shared existence.

Thank you for your strength

To Chinmayee, my partner: thank you for your strength, your love, your quiet faith. Thank you for standing by a restless man who rarely stopped moving. Thank you for giving me the gift of our son, who now carries your light. I do not know how to walk without you, but I will try, because I promised you we would keep going.

To those reading this—hold your partner close. Call them not by the titles society gives, but by the truth your heart feels. Be each other’s companions, equals, friends. Because when the final goodbye comes, you will not remember them as husband or wife—you will remember them as the one who walked beside you, hand in hand, through the fragile wonder of life.

Goodbye, Partner. 
 

Parambrahma Tripathy is an author and Communication for Development professional with over 18 years of experience. He has worked with organizations like BBC Media Action, Landesa, The Energy Policy Institute at the University of Chicago, IPE Global, and Coceptual Media. He has been recognized with several awards, including the prestigious Laadli Media and Gender Sensitivity Award in 2022 and 2023, Best Lyricist of the Year in 2022, Dr. Radhanath Rath Fellowship for Journalism, Kalinga Literary Youth Award, Timepass Bestseller Award, Srujan India Youth Award, Utkal Sahitya Samaj Felicitation and Odia Yuva Stambha Samman(2023)

(DISCLAIMER: This is an opinion piece. The views expressed are the author’s own and have nothing to do with OTV’s charter or views. OTV does not assume any responsibility or liability for the same.)

(DISCLAIMER: This is an opinion piece. The views expressed are the author’s own and have nothing to do with OTV’s charter or views. OTV does not assume any responsibility or liability for the same.)