Scene 1 — The Preparation

The scent of cardamom curled through the kitchen — a quiet nostalgia that outlasted new appliances, new arguments, and even the girl who once begged to lick the spoon. Amma crushed the green pods slowly with the back of a spoon, just as her own mother had done, coaxing out the tiny black seeds and tossing them into the pot. The biryani was nearly done. Steam laced the glass lid as basmati rice rose with ghee, saffron, and marinated chicken. Her fingers moved with practised ease, stirring without thought, tasting without measuring.

This, she believed, was love — seasoned, salted, slow. A kind of care that simmered longer than words could hold.

Amma didn’t say “I love you” easily. But every grain of rice in that pot carried her waiting and weary nights. This was her inheritance — not heart-to-hearts or hugs, but a way of nourishing someone so completely they’d never go hungry for affection.

She lit a sandalwood incense stick, the match flaring in the dim kitchen light. As the smoke rose, she offered a silent confession to the altar and placed the stick upright. The sweetness drifted toward the hallway — a peace offering no one had asked for.

The door creaked. Footsteps. A phone is buzzing.

Aara walked in, dragging her feet, eyes glued to her screen. The blue streak in her hair had darkened — Amma noticed it but said nothing. An oversized T-shirt with a skeleton clutching bubble tea hung over rumpled jeans. It looked slept in.

“Your shirt,” Amma said, her voice catching, “looks like it came from someone else’s laundry.”

Aara didn’t look up. “It’s just clothes, Amma.”

But to Amma, it wasn’t. She had grown up believing clothes didn’t need a brand to carry pride. A two-dollar blouse, pressed and worn with intent, could speak volumes. Dignity wasn’t about price — it was about presence. And today, her daughter looked like she had borrowed someone else’s life.

Still, Amma swallowed the rest of the sentence. What was the point?

“I made your Favourite Chettinad biryani,” she offered instead, her voice too bright for the room.

Aara blinked, unmoved. “Cool. I’m kind of craving fish and chips. Or maybe just a burger?”

Amma’s stirring hand slowed. Her shoulder started tensing.

“You don’t want biryani?” she braved, half-laughing, as if this was some passing joke. “This is your favourite. I used the deboned chicken thigh, the way you like.”

Aara was already halfway down the hall. “I’ve had it like a hundred times. I want something different. Maybe Thai. Or pizza. I’ll just order something.”

And just like that, she disappeared back into her room.

The silence left behind wasn’t still — it echoed.

Amma lowered the flame, wiped her hands on her apron, and stood staring at the untouched pot. The biryani shimmered under the lid. Each grain puffed to perfection — a labour now met with absence.

She sat down at the table, pressing her hands flat to its surface as if steadying herself against something tilting.

Her gaze drifted to the iron by the window. She traced the pale scar on her wrist — a burn from years ago, earned while flattening school uniforms with moonlit hope. She remembered smoothing each pleat with the kind of focus others saved for prayers.

Back then, she had believed in crisp lines. In showing love through starch and steam.

But now, the shirts lay crumpled in baskets. And the prayers came slower.

Beneath the scent of ghee and saffron, something else lingered — harder to place. Not quite sadness. Not yet surrender. Just a faint trace of something approaching. Unfamiliar. Uninvited.

She whispered, to no one in particular:

“When did feeding her stop being enough?”

Scene 2 — The Report Card

The school corridor smelt faintly of disinfectant and teenage apathy. Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Somewhere, a bell rang half-heartedly. Amma adjusted her shawl, already feeling out of place in her neat cotton kurta and polished shoes. Around her, other parents scrolled their phones or spoke in clipped, fluent English.

She sat outside the Year Nine, Class G — back straight, legs crossed at the ankle. Aara slouched beside her, hoodie half-zipped, AirPods in. She didn’t look up.

“You could at least look alert,” Amma said dryly.

“I’m not the one being assessed,” Aara rolled her eyes.

The teacher’s door opened. “Mrs. Radha Krishnan? Aara?”

Inside, a small round table. Charts on the walls. A laminated “Growth Mindset” poster tugged at the edges — as if it too was resisting instruction. Amma glanced at it and wondered, not unkindly, if defiance was the new dialect of this generation.

The teacher smiled in that professional way — kind but rehearsed. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll get straight to it. Aara’s work shows flashes of brilliance, but…” She tapped the report sheet. “She’s inconsistent. Distracted. Not turning in assignments on time.”

“She daydreams,” the teacher added. “And she zones out a lot. I think she’s trying — but something’s not connecting.”

Amma blinked. “She… daydreams?”

Aara twirled her pen. Didn’t look up.

Without thought, Amma’s voice escaped her. Sharp. Frazzled. Unfiltered.

“She has every opportunity,” she blurted, hands clenching in her lap. “No chores. No pressure. She’s treated like a princess at home. I gave up — ”

She stopped. The air in the room thickened. Her words hovered like steam over boiling rice.

The teacher cleared her throat gently. Aara looked away.

Amma folded her hands tightly, trying to pack her emotions back in. But it was too late.

She had spoken her wound aloud.

The teacher offered a diplomatic smile. “She’s certainly intelligent. Just — floating a little right now.”

Floating.

Amma turned to her daughter. “What are you floating from, Aara?”

Aara shrugged. “I don’t know. Everything’s just… boring.”

Boring. The word struck like a slap.

When they got home, Aara retreated to her room without a word. Amma stood in the kitchen, her arms still folded from the meeting. A deep ache throbbed between her shoulder blades.

With a heavy heart, she scraped the biryani into a container — then paused. She couldn’t salvage it — not today. The fragrant saffron ghosted even as she tipped it into the bin.

She gripped the counter’s edge. Thought of the career she had shelved like an unfinished chapter. The office presentations she used to own. The colleagues who once joked that she should run for office. But when Aara was born, everything shifted.

People began preaching: “Children need their mother. Especially girls.”

So Amma had stepped back. Folded her ambition like laundry. She’d sorted socks by feel, not colour; peeled mandarins until they looked like little sculptures; even double-rinsed bubble tea pearls because Aara liked them softer, smoother. And she’d done it all — without resentment.

Had she carved out a path so smooth her daughter no longer felt the need to walk it?

Amma rubbed her temples. The kitchen clock ticked like a slow accusation.

Girls, she had always been taught, are born with invisible contracts. First, with their parents. Then with their husbands. And finally, with their children.

When they married, they became permanent caregivers — not just to one man, but to his whole orbit. In-laws, relatives, family friends.

It became their unspoken job to remember Aara’s friends’ birthdays, handwash delicates and pretend to understand K-pop trends without mixing up the bands.

More than acknowledgment, it was about expectations.

If a husband ever helped — he would bring it up in every argument like a badge of honour: “I did the dishes, didn’t I? I put the baby to sleep.”

A favour. Not a shared responsibility.

Men were crowned at birth.

And women were applauded only if they smiled through exhaustion.

She had wanted something different for Aara.

Not out of rebellion — but out of love.

Aara was her princess. Her only.

Amma had once dreamed of giving her the world, before the world demanded things from her. Before life would turn her into someone’s wife, someone’s daughter-in-law, someone’s tired second thought.

She had hoped to stand beside her daughter like a smudged horizon — present, but distant enough to let her bloom. But deep down, Amma knew: eventually, every girl is pulled into Amma’s version of nature’s laws.

The weight of family. The unpaid labour of being liked. The thankless grace of holding a home together. She had wanted her daughter to move freely — never shackled to anyone’s permission.

But now — watching Aara drift, disengaged, declaring life boring — something inside her recoiled.

Tears pricked Amma’s eyes — but she swallowed them.

From the hallway, music pulsed faintly through Aara’s door. Some ambient synth beat — soft, wandering, without words.

Amma walked toward it. She didn’t knock.

She just stood there, outside the door.

Inside, her daughter was likely sprawled on the bed, earphones in, eyes tracing something Amma could no longer imagine.

Floating, the teacher had said. Amma now wondered — had she ever anchored her child at all?

Scene 3 — The Letter Not Sent

The house was still.

Aara had gone to school early for a group project — one Amma hadn’t heard much about. After the parent-teacher meeting, there had been no apology, no confrontation. Just more silence, like static on a forgotten channel.

Amma walked slowly into her daughter’s room with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. The smell hit her first — not unpleasant, but foreign. Lavender wax and vanilla lotion. Not sandalwood and turmeric-scrubbed skin. Not her.

“I named her Aara — my melody,” Amma murmured. “But lately, she seems to be chasing silence.”

Amma had once wielded words like weapons — sharp, deliberate, unyielding. Debates were battles, and she rarely lost. But over time, she chose silence, not from submission, but from a desire to shield. Words, she realised, could wound as deeply as they could heal.

She set the basket down and moved to the desk. Crumpled paper, half-finished sketches, makeup wipes, a cracked phone case. She began to clear them — not to intrude, but to create space for breath.

Beneath a pile of sweatshirts, her hand found a shoebox.

Amma hesitated. Then she lifted the lid.

Inside: an old sketchbook. Stickers peeled at the corners. On the cover, Aara had scribbled the word: “Fragments.”

Amma hoped her silence built a sanctuary, a safe space where love was felt, not forced. Yet, in silencing herself, she wondered if she had also silenced the bridge between them.

And now, as she opened her daughter’s sketchbook, she feared what truths might have bloomed in that quiet.

She opened it.

The first drawings were restless — a girl holding her own shadow, a mother and daughter drawn back-to-back, their spines mirrored. Below one: “I know you love me. But do you know me?”

Amma’s breath caught.

She turned the page. The ink had seeped through in places — Aara must have pressed hard, like the words weren’t written, but insisted.

There, in Aara’s untidy script, was a poem.

Dear Amma,

I don’t hate the biryani.

I hate that I have to eat it with a thank-you in my throat,

like every bite is proof you love me more than you love yourself.

I don’t hate our home.

I hate that I can’t breathe in it without smelling your fear —

not of failure, but of me disappointing you.

Fear that your sacrifices won’t be worth it.

That I won’t shine brightly enough

to justify all the ways you dimmed yourself for me.

I saw a photo of you once — at Ammamma’s.

You were laughing, wild-eyed.

Someone said you could’ve been anything.

I see her sometimes, in your eyes when you’re not looking.

And I wonder if she survived becoming my mother.

Amma, that girl is still inside you.

But I can’t find her.

And I feel guilty. I feel tired.

Like a museum built on someone else’s dreams —

quiet, curated, and always being walked through.

I know you love me.

But I’m not sure you see me.

I dye my hair because it makes me feel real.

Not rebellious — just visible.

I leave my shirt crumpled

because I’m tired of being dressed up for approval.

I am in search of you. I am in search of me.

I’m not lazy. I’m just lost.

And you keep fixing the house

when the ache is in the air.

– A

Amma closed the sketchbook slowly, with fingers trembling.

She sat on the edge of the bed, where stuffed animals once stood guard. Her hand brushed the bedsheet — still warm, still holding the shape of a body not long gone.

And suddenly, she was back.

Aara was three months old. Skin is cracked and inflamed. Crying for hours — colic, the doctor said. Then came the eczema.

She remembered the sound of glass droppers tapping against baby teeth. The rustle of leaves she ground into pastes before sunrise. The ointment she made from scratch — sandalwood, turmeric, and ghee — thick as paste, golden as hope, with a scent that clung to her shawl like a second skin. And the stains — how they lingered. She scrubbed them out with vinegar and baking soda, fingers raw, fabric fading — as if even the cloth had to forget what it had held.

Sleep was a rumour. Still, Amma sang — lullabies she had inherited, not memorised.

She had held her child like a sacred task.

And the child had grown, healed, blossomed.

But Amma had not stopped protecting her. Not even after the danger passed.

Maybe she didn’t know how.

Aara had become a teenager, but Amma still saw that fragile baby — whose pain she could not prevent but whose suffering she had tried to soften with every morsel, every corner cleaned, every shirt ironed.

And now — this girl who once clung to her in the middle of the night, sweaty and red-cheeked, was accusing her of fear.

“I hate that I can’t breathe in it without smelling your fear.”

Amma stared out the window, where a single jasmine bud swayed in the wind. Something inside her broke — not from anger, but from grief.

She had not mothered Aara casually.

She had poured every ounce of care into her survival. Into her dignity. Into a life where nothing would ever hurt her again.

But maybe — maybe she had mistaken safety, sacrifice, silence for love.

She reached out and touched the sketchbook again. The drawing of the girl with the shadow. The faces split in two.

She remembered her own journal from when she was Aara’s age. A poem she had written during a monsoon evening, trapped inside with a father who yelled and a mother who wept silently into her food.

“I wish someone would hear me before I disappear completely.” She had folded that page and hidden it inside a pillow. And now, decades later, her daughter had written the same cry in a new language.

Amma stood slowly, placing the sketchbook back in the shoebox.

Her hands paused at the lid.

They were not opposites. They were mirrors. One reflecting youth rising, the other fading — yet both still framed by love, by fear, by hope. What Aara saw in Amma was her future. What Amma saw in Aara was her past. And in that reflection, perhaps they could both finally see each other — not as child and mother, but as women becoming.

Not everything needed to be returned to silence.

Not this time.

Scene 4 — The Turning

Days passed.

The sketchbook stayed tucked away in its box, but the words echoed in Amma’s mind like something dropped in water — small but spreading.

She moved through the house like someone treading water. The fridge stayed full. The ironing board remained folded. Even her morning tea lost its ritual. Nothing felt ready to be held.

Aara came and went, floating from screen to screen, room to room, always half-present. Amma stopped lecturing. Stopped filling the silence with chores. It was quiet, but not peaceful. Just a room waiting for sound.

But Amma was changing, too. Quietly. In places no one could see.

The heat flushes had begun weeks ago — sudden, erratic, cruel. Pillow damp, scalp prickling. She often stood in the kitchen in the middle of the night, half-naked, trying to cool her skin with the freezer door. Her body had become an unreliable narrator.

Her bladder betrayed her. She had to giggle when she laughed, just to disguise the risk of leaking — a sharp, sour smell she masked with floral sprays and forced cheer. She tried to laugh it off when it happened in public, but the shame curled like a fist in her gut.

She had even started ordering sanitary pads online. Was it just convenience — or was she afraid that standing in the store, near the adult incontinence aisle, might age her? Reduce her? Or was it something deeper! Something darker, she didn’t have the words for.

Her bones ached without reason. She once forgot the word for “strainer” mid-sentence.

Early onset of menopause, the doctor had finally said.

Very common… Manageable.

But it didn’t feel manageable.

It felt like coming undone, like her body was slowly slipping out of its own name.

Krishnan had stopped asking how she was years ago. He assumed her quiet meant contentment. It had, once. But now, it meant fatigue. It meant fear. Her sister lived in another city. Her friends had faded into holiday WhatsApp forwards and mass festive greetings.

And Aara… she was somewhere else entirely.

One night, at 2 a.m., Amma lay wide awake with pelvic pain and scrolling fingers. She opened Instagram. Aara’s profile — full of curated mess: selfies, glitter fonts, inside jokes she didn’t understand. Pinned posts with phrases like:

“I’m not living for validation anymore. I’m living for myself.”

There was no tag. No explanation.

The likes were plenty. The comments — hearts, claps, “u go girl” — poured in.

Amma stared at the post, thumb hovering.

She started to type: “So proud of you, Kanna — always shine.”

Then deleted it.

Instead, she liked the post with her main account, then worried it might embarrass Aara. She tapped again to unlike it. Then again. Then stopped — leaving the screen mid-flicker, unsure if she’d ended up visible or erased.

She closed the app and leaned against the bedframe.

Who was she now?

She used to be someone — sharp, persuasive, ambitious. The girl who raced at nationals, who won debates, who wore purple lipstick simply because she could. She used to dream in full sentences.

And then, slowly, she had poured herself out — teaspoon by teaspoon — believing motherhood meant making yourself disappear, so your child could be fully seen.

Don’t you dare share the spotlight, the world warned, soft but sharp.

Now she wasn’t sure who had written that rule.

Or why she had followed it so faithfully.

The next morning, Amma didn’t reach for incense.

Instead, she folded a cotton sari she hadn’t worn in years — soft lilac with faded gold trim — and as she folded, she began humming. An old Tamil romantic song. One she had once played in loop, decades ago, to soothe a broken heart.

She didn’t know why the song returned after all those years. But it did. And it felt like a kind of offering.

That evening, Amma reached for her old journal. The pages crackled at the edges, but the ink still held.

She flipped to the poem she’d written at seventeen, during a monsoon, when she had dreamt of becoming a writer. She read aloud a forgotten verse, underlined in blue:

I am the rain and the rust.

The softness and the scream.

Don’t shape me into silence.

I’m already holding back floods.

She sat with those words for a long time:

And kept asking herself:

Who was I before fear?

Who told me that love meant forgetting myself?

What else is still inside me?

And then she called the clinic.

She booked an appointment — for her body, for her mind, for all the years she had folded pain into laundry and stirred it into lemon rice.

She scheduled iron infusions — time finally carved out for her own healing. The supplements had never been enough. She asked about pelvic physio. She was finally candid with her shame. She allowed herself to be handled — to let go, to be helped, instead of holding everything in.

That night, as jasmine swayed in the garden breeze, Amma sat on the floor with her journal in one hand and Aara’s sketchbook in the other.

Two voices. Two timelines.

A mother and a daughter.

Two women learning how to be seen.

Scene 5 — The Small Bridge

Aara’s door was half open.

That alone felt like an invitation.

Inside, the room glowed with lavender LED strips. The air smelled faintly of shampoo and body mist. A lo-fi beat hummed from a speaker — ambient, wordless, suspended in thought.

Amma stood at the threshold, holding two things: her old journal and Aara’s sketchbook.

She knocked, not loudly — just enough.

Aara looked up, surprised. She sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing an oversized hoodie, sleeves tugged over her hands, eyeliner slightly smudged.

“You okay?” she asked, wary but cautious.

Amma nodded. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

“Um… OK.”

Amma stepped inside slowly, careful not to disturb anything. She sat on the edge of the bed, placing both books between them.

“I read your poem,” she said softly.

Aara went still.

Amma just let the words hang between them like a door gently opening.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” Amma added. “But I did. And I’m not sorry.”

Aara’s face tightened, unsure if she should defend or retreat.

But Amma smiled faintly and reached for her own journal.

“I wrote this at your age,” she said, flipping to the page with the monsoon poem. “Just a couple of years older than you… back when my peacock green eyeliner was the trend.”

Aara raised an eyebrow. “You wore eyeliner?”

“That was peak Kajol season. Coloured contacts were too expensive — eyeliner was the next best thing.”

Aara laughed — unexpectedly, loudly — and Amma laughed too, startled by how much she’d missed that sound.

“Did you ever publish your poems?” Aara asked, flipping gently through the pages.

Amma shook her head. “No. I got busy being a ‘good’ daughter. Then a wife. Then a mother. And then… I forgot where I put myself.”

Aara stared at the page. “It’s good. It’s… not what I expected.”

“You don’t expect your mother to be a person,” Amma said gently. “I didn’t expect my mother to be one either.”

Amma looked at her — really looked. “You don’t have to become me,” she said quietly. “I may not always understand. I may not always agree. I may not know how to advocate the way your world needs.”

“But I will stand with you.”

Aara didn’t speak. But her eyes softened.

They sat in silence for a while. Just the quiet hum of the speaker and the occasional creak of the house settling into night.

“I thought you’d be mad,” Aara said finally. “About the poem.”

This time, they truly saw each other. There was defiance in her eyes, but also fear. And a kind of mourning — as if she’d spent years building armour from misunderstandings.

“I was never mad at you for having feelings,” Amma said. “I was hurt that I didn’t know them.”

Aara’s shoulders dropped.

“I miss the old us,” she whispered.

Amma exhaled. “I miss her too. But maybe it’s time we meet the new us. I’ve changed. You’re changing. Maybe that’s not a failure. Maybe it’s… growing.”

Aara asked: “You smell different.”

“I feel different,” Amma said. “I went to the doctor. I asked for help.”

Aara looked up.

“You never talk about… that stuff.”

“I know,” Amma said. “But silence didn’t save me. It just erased the parts I struggled to say.”

She smiled gently. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

They looked at each other — really looked.

And for the first time in years, there was no instruction, no performance.

Just two people trying.

Aara picked up the sketchbook and held it out.

“I want you to see this one,” she said, flipping to a drawing of two women under a single umbrella. One older, one younger. The rain poured around them, but their shared space stayed dry. Safe.

“I drew it after the school meeting,” Aara said. “I didn’t know if you’d ever understand. But I hoped.”

Amma reached out, her fingers light against the page.

“I do now,” she said. “Maybe not everything. But enough to try.”

“This time,” she said, her voice trembling, “I will learn you, not lecture you.”

They stayed that way for a while. Shoulder to shoulder. No need to fill the space.

And somewhere, in the quiet of a messy teenage room, a small bridge was built.

Not with discipline.

Not with obedience.

But with two books. Two open hands.

And a willingness to begin again.

That night, Amma slept lighter than she had in months. And the next morning, something in her stirred…

Scene 6 — The Real Mothering

Somewhere in Amma’s body — deeper than bone, deeper than sleep — she woke with a sentence lodged inside her:

“My daughter is blooming… and I am unbecoming.”

She didn’t know where it had come from.

A dream? A phrase overheard? A memory cracking open?

All she knew was: it felt true.

She thought, suddenly, of her own mother. Pregnant again when Amma was just becoming a woman. She had watched her mother’s body expand while her own began to change — two generations caught in the same swell of hormones and duty, passing like tides in the same kitchen.

But the kitchen smelled different this morning.

Not ghee. Not tempered spices. Flour. Yeast. Banana. Cinnamon. Amma stood beside her daughter at the bench, elbow-deep in banana bread batter. The recipe was one Aara found online. Amma had never baked with precision — oven cooking still felt foreign. But today, she was trying.

The batter was lumpy. They forgot to preheat the oven. Amma added cardamom out of habit, and Aara wrinkled her nose, then laughed.

And this time, the laughter didn’t echo. It rang.

The kitchen — once ruled by ritual and order — softened into something else.

A space of trial. Of curiosity. Of play.

“Your kneading looks aggressive,” Aara teased.

“I’ve got years of frustrations to work through,” Amma said, grinning.

Aara reached over and stuck a dab of batter onto Amma’s nose. Amma shrieked — then burst out laughing. The sound startled even her. She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed that freely.

When the bread went into the oven, they sat at the table, sipping chai and letting their fingers rest.

“I used to hate the smell of cardamom,” Aara said. “It always meant you were busy. Like… too focused to talk.”

Amma stirred her tea. “And now?”

Aara shrugged. “Now it smells like you. But softer.”

Amma smiled. “That’s fair. I was… intense. I thought I had to be. For you. For your future.”

“I know,” Aara said. “I used to think you were mad at me all the time. But I see it now. It was… more like fear.”

Amma nodded. “I didn’t know how to mother without worrying. I didn’t know how to stop folding myself into usefulness.”

There was a pause.

“Do you still feel lost?” Aara asked.

“Not lost,” Amma said. “Maybe just… redrawing the map. But I’m finding little pieces again. Every time I speak. Every time I stop apologising for being tired.”

She reached for Aara’s hand and held it lightly.

“I’m learning to be your mother differently now. Not from fear. From love.”

Aara squeezed back. “I’m learning to be your daughter differently, too.”

The smell of banana bread filled the room — warm, imperfect, alive.

They peeked through the glass oven door. The bread was still gooey in the centre.

“It’s still gooey in the middle,” Aara said, squinting.

“That’s okay,” Amma said. “So are we.”

They laughed.

They sliced it too early. Burned their fingers. Blew on the pieces. Ate with abandon. It was messy. Glorious. Shared.

Later that evening, Amma didn’t light incense. She didn’t open a journal.

She just stepped outside.

The air was unseasonably cool. A faint breeze carried the smell of rain from three streets away. Wind chimes tinkled from the neighbour’s balcony — irregular, spontaneous, musical.

And somewhere — from a house across the fence, or maybe a passing car — a song drifted into the sky. Not one Amma knew. Aara’s playlist, probably.

The melody was strange but soothing. New, but not jarring.

Amma closed her eyes and let it brush against her.

She didn’t write tonight.

Didn’t explain herself.

She just listened.

A song her daughter loved.

A night that wasn’t demanding anything from her.

A wind that didn’t need to be named.

And somewhere, just below her ribs, something — once knotted — finally unfurled.

This short story was submitted to the Hope Prize 2025. Although it did not place, I remain proud of this story. I dedicate it to my lovely mum, Parvathi Devi, and to my daughters, Vahranyaa and Arya. In these pages, you may encounter a woman you have known, a woman you have overlooked, a woman you have carried within you, or a woman you are still learning to see. So often, the pain and the journey remain invisible. If this story speaks to something within you, know that you are not alone. This is our story.

Two Mirrors and the Rites of Passage was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

They wake, they walk, they work, they wait — 
each bound by name, not fate.

Nine lives in mirrored light — 
each half a shadow, each whole a fight.

Two souls named Amir, two first steps; both cradle the world.

Amir in peaceful nursery, wobbling toward plush toys — cheered by poised parents.
Amir in tent camp, gripping father’s hand tight — eyes wide as unfamiliar boots draw near.

One explores safety; one learns amid uncertainty — 
Both embracing tomorrow.

Two souls named Sara, two mornings break; both count the sun.

Sara in gated suburbia, undecided — sushi’s ocean tang or steak’s char — spoiled for choice.
Sara in rubble, sifts through dusty rice, plucking worms — praying for just one more tray.

One fixates on flavour; one’s grateful for grain — 
Both starving for satisfaction.

Two souls named Rani, two births unfold; both hold the scream.

Rani in birthing suite, murmuring strength — machines humming in bright-lit calm.
Rani in hollow clinic, cradling a hand and a prayer — counting heartbeats through blackout.

One catches life with ease; one fights death with hope — 
Both deliver beginnings.

Two souls named Jacob, two evening games; both clutch a token.

Jacob in suburban backyard, tossing a frisbee — training for next week’s championship.
Jacob in exiled camp field, hurling a cloth-wrapped stone — eyes bright despite aching limbs.

One plays for pastime; one plays for reprieve — 
Both propelled by joy.

Two souls named Margaret, two rocking chairs; both cradle memories.

Margaret in cozy armchair, knitting scarves — recounting childhood tales.
Margaret in battered tent, rocking a flustered child — trembling lips whispering lullaby.

One preserves family lore; one sustains hope — 
Both feeding future generations with love.

Two souls named Maria, two worn mops; both chase the reflection.

Maria in shopping mall, polishing floors — checking her smile in shining tiles.
Maria in ruined hall, sweeping shattered glass — searching for glimpses of former hope.

One cleans for pride; one sweeps for renewal — 
Both restoring what’s lost.

Two souls named Diego, two morning rounds; both serve the quiet ones.

Diego in luxury safari park, tracing the rhythm of giraffes — their freedom framed in silence.
Diego in conflict-zone, nursing wounded donkeys — humming through the echo of gunfire.

One tends wonder; one shelters pain — 
Both cradle the breath of gentleness.

Two souls named Ahmed, two early routes; both steer the day.

Ahmed on scenic route, greeting smiles — plotting the quickest curve through quiet streets.
Ahmed through shattered streets, navigating cratered roads — delivering children to safety.

One drives for routine; one drives for rescue — 
Both carrying the next stop.

Two souls named Ava, two live streams; both gauge the crowd.

Ava in sleek studio, adjusting ring light — curating hashtags for her next trending post.
Ava in displacement camp, broadcasting via cracked phone — pleading for drinking water.

One pursues likes; one pursues life-saving aid — 
Both reaching for connection.

Some grace, some fear, some pride, some dream — 
each one a witness, each one a double.

Same names, same rituals, divided by chance — 
yet all still dancing in the human trance.

Inspiration Behind the Poem

We are not different people.
We are the same people — placed differently.
War doesn’t change who we are.
It changes what we’re allowed to become.

This poem was born from a simple but unsettling thought: somewhere in the world, there is someone with the same name, the same beginnings, the same quiet dreams — yet living a completely different life. Not because they are different, but because their circumstances are.

I began thinking about these “parallel selves” — like doppelgängers across continents. Children who want to play, mothers who want to protect, workers who want dignity, elders who want to pass on stories. The desires are the same. The instincts are the same. The humanity is the same.

But then comes war.

And overnight, everything changes — not the person, but their reality. The same child who might have chased toys now learns to navigate fear. The same parent who would have planned a future now focuses on survival. The same ambitions, the same love, the same values remain — but they are forced to take different forms.

This poem is not about difference. It is about sameness — interrupted.

It is about how fragile our circumstances are, and how easily life could have placed any one of us on the other side of that divide. It asks the reader to look beyond geography, beyond comfort, beyond distance — and to recognise themselves in every name, every moment, every life mirrored in the poem.

Because in the end, it is not two lives.
It is one humanity, living under different conditions.

P.S. Written for a 2025 poetry competition (it didn’t place). I’d really appreciate your feedback — and a like if you enjoyed it…

They Had the Same Names was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ten seconds.
That is all it takes for a life to change — for joy to dissolve into sorrow, for silence to swallow words unsaid, for an ordinary moment to turn into one you will never forget. Time is rarely loud; it does not announce its arrivals or departures. It slips between breaths, between blinks, and leaves us holding either grief, regret, or wonder in its wake.

This poem explores the fragile gravity of ten seconds — moments that haunt us, moments we wish to forget, and moments that remind us to treasure what we still hold. It is a reminder that every instant carries weight, and that this very moment, the one you are in now, matters more than we often dare to realise.

Time does not shout. It whispers, then vanishes.
We think we will have forever, until we do not.
These are ten-second truths — too late, too close, too real.

It took ten seconds — no more, no less — for the world to crack.
A breath, a blink, a turn too slow.
And time — once silent — forgot to go back.

The light turned green — she never saw the silver blur of you.
Ten seconds in, you glanced, then flew.
Now metal weeps and silence screams;
You live — but only in her dreams.

The hallway screamed, “Go now!” — you paused to pray.
Ten seconds lost — the roof gave way.
Dust stitched fire through your lungs.
A heartbeat short of cheating death.

You turned — a text, a call, a flash of light.
Ten seconds gone — the cradle out of sight.
The thud still shakes the air.
And now you parent through a prayer.

The news was on — but fate began its quiet dance.
Ten seconds later, he choked — you ran, too late to hear the sound.
And now each headline wears a shroud.

We measure life in years — but it unravels in seconds.
The loudest tragedies enter without knocking.
He gasped — you froze — the seconds slipped like sand.
Ten seconds in, you reached for the phone.
“Too late,” they said — yet you hear him call.
You count the pause — the breath that lost it all.

She held the phone, her fingers near the end.
Ten seconds late — your voice said, “Wait, my friend.”
But quiet fell — too final, too exact.
You call her name — it echoes where you should have led.

They asked for truth — your eyes just met the floor.
Ten seconds passed, the gavel sealed the door, cold, unsure and hollow.
Now a soul will not sleep — your silence learned too late to speak.

You took the wheel — not the fate — rain came too hard, too fast, too late.
Ten seconds in, his voice said, “It is not your fault.”
Then — pitch black.
Let go of guilt. Let this night stay whole.

Some words stay caged forever — and still manage to echo.
The ones we swallow grow louder when we are alone.
You missed the call — voicemail full.
Ten seconds later, she jumped from the bridge — no pause, just untold words.
Now you replay the ringtone more than her laugh.

You reached — but brushed the air, not skin or thread.
Ten seconds late — her hand was meant to anchor, not to fall.
Now every crosswalk feels like grief in motion.

You meant to pause — your finger missed the frame.
Ten seconds live, you smiled, then spat — the clip plays on repeat,
And shame replays beneath each like.

They called your name — you waved, then took your time.
Ten seconds late — they crossed the tracks, but did not return.
And every path you take says “go.”

What if we noticed the light before it dimmed?
What if we did not need loss to remember we loved?
You almost said “I love you” — the words caught in your throat.
Ten seconds more — and she turned away, still staying, not knowing.
Through the years, you whispered it through care.

You ran — too late to catch the first breath or the last.
Ten seconds gone — the room had fallen quiet, not knowing what came next.
Your hands still held hers — she knew, then and now.

You wanted to forgive — but silence held you back.
Ten seconds passed — no apology, no confrontation, but somehow you softened.
Sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

You missed the recital — traffic, time, a thousand things.
Ten seconds late — the curtain had already fallen, applause already fading.
But she ran into your arms — and that was all she needed.

We are more than the moments we miss.
Sometimes, we show up later — and sometimes that is still right.

You tied your shoe, then turned your gaze to sky.
Ten seconds later, the sky held only steam, the colours said goodbye.
In the smell of dew, something lingered a little longer that day.

You missed the train — a breath too slow at the gate.
Ten seconds later, a stranger offered you their seat, and a life story.
Some days, the universe sends you an angel — just ten seconds late.

Some say Queen of the Night blooms just once — a breath, a blaze.
Ten seconds late — the petals were gone, the air still sweet — and you breathless.
Do not chase a scent that is already memory.

You fumbled the lens — laughter broke out of frame.
Ten seconds late — the shot was blurred and useless.
Joy still echoes — not every frame can hold what matters.

It only takes ten seconds — to break, to miss, to grieve.
But it also takes ten seconds — to see, to stay, to choose.
What broke us taught us where we bend.
What we missed taught us how to stay.
Ten seconds is never just a moment — hold it like breath.

I wrote this for the Poetry London competition 2025. It did not place — but perhaps its weight was never meant for a prize, only for the pause it leaves behind.

Defining Moments… 10 Seconds… was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Intro — The Spark
I wrote The Hundredth Death after watching a Tamil drama — you know the kind, where someone says, “When my girlfriend left me, part of me died.”

It made me think: some people live in true life-and-death situations every single day… and yet, what breaks them is not always the battlefield.

Sometimes, long before their body falls, other parts have already died — innocence, trust, laughter, hope. I chose to tell that story through a soldier’s eyes, because in war, death does not come just once. It comes in pieces.

The Poem

They say a soldier dies only once — 
but that’s the cleanest lie I’ve ever heard.
That might be true in movies — clean, heroic, final.
But in the real world, a soldier dies in pieces.
One death at a time,
until the body is the only thing left breathing.

The first death is innocence — 
a soft thing, folded into the seams of a uniform.
You hand it over without even knowing,
eager for glory, or purpose, or just a way out.

The second dies in training — 
when you learn to silence fear
and fire your weapon without trembling.
It feels like growing up — until it doesn’t.

The third goes with the letter you write
“just in case” — 
all the things you’d never say out loud,
crammed into neat paragraphs for your mother.

The fourth dies in waiting — 
the endless hours,
where your breath is a countdown
and sleep tastes like ash.

The fifth — 
when a friend does not come back.
You say their name until it loses shape,
because grief is a luxury you can’t afford.

By the tenth,
you’ve stopped counting.
You carry them like spare magazines — 
not in your hands,
but somewhere between your ribs and regret.

There’s a death in every scream you didn’t let out,
every child’s eyes you couldn’t meet,
every prayer muttered over someone else’s blood,
every “yes, sir” when your soul whispered “no.”

Some deaths are quiet:
a numbness that settles in your joints,
a sunset you no longer notice,
a laugh you used to love but can’t recall.

Others are loud:
the crack of bones,
the roar of orders,
the breaking of promises you never even made.

By the hundredth death,
you’re still standing — 
but only because the dead parts know how to march.

And yet,
beneath the weight of memory,
the rhythm of loss,
somewhere deep in the dark —

a sliver remains.
Something that refuses to die:
the memory of warmth,
the whisper of a home,
a child’s drawing folded in your vest pocket.

Not hope — 
not yet.
But the stubborn ghost of it.

And that, too,
is something worth fighting for.

Afterword — The Meaning
The Hundredth Death dismantles the myth that a soldier dies only once, revealing instead a slow unravelling of self. Each vignette marks a different kind of loss — the first death being innocence, quietly surrendered when the uniform is donned; the second, the killing of fear in training, which feels like maturity until it hollows something essential. The third death lives in the letter written “just in case,” a confession of truths too hard to say in life. The fourth is the slow decay in waiting, where dread becomes a daily diet, and the fifth is the shattering absence when a friend does not return. By the tenth, losses blur into routine, carried like spare magazine — ammunition clips holding bullets — close to the body, unspoken, yet always there. Some deaths come in silence: the numbing of joy, the fading of sunsets, the loss of laughter. Others are loud: the breaking of bones, orders, and promises. By the hundredth death, the body still marches, but only because the dead parts know the steps. Yet, buried under the weight of memory and the rhythm of loss, a stubborn fragment survives — not full hope, but the ghost of it. Small, fragile, and fiercely alive, it becomes the one thing worth fighting for.

The Hundredth Death was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

She was not born ready — she became it. Like a cat in the dark: stealthy, certain.
A mother not by tradition, but by tenderness, tenacity, and truth.
The title was not etched in gold — it was carved through midnights and migraines.
She learned the choreography of care while limping through the shifting shape of herself.
Lyrical love echoed as lullaby — soothing what raw, rough, relentless labour could not.
She bloomed where she was cornered — and rose defiant when the soil cracked.
This love, she wondered — does it end, or only deepen with each tide?
She became a mother the way stars become sky — without needing to be seen.

She is my mom.
She is the mum you knew.
She is the mum you bore.
She is you.

She stirs the broth, slow and warm — a ritual in lentils, a prayer in spice.
She whispers, “May strength rise in your bones, and may you brave every wound with grace — and poetic defiance.”

She irons the collar till it stands proud, smoothing away the weight of inherited shame.
She whispers, “May this shield you from harm — may you wear your truth and walk in it with pride.”

She sweeps the porch in half-light hush, her quiet rhythm steady as sunrise breath.
She whispers, “Watch for shadows that cross your path — and know a wisp of me still lives in you.”

She tugs weeds with fingers stained and sore, roots snapping like old regrets.
She whispers, “You can change your mind. You can say no. The door is always open — and you are the key.”

In every quiet act, her dreams were never hers — yet they wrapped her in warmth, in comfort, in safety.
You were her spark. Her reason. Her quiet forever.

She sat at the kitchen table when the house finally slept — unpaid bills, creative accounting, and the weight of being the only one who knew.
She whispered bravely, “This is not the life I wanted, but it is the life I will win for them.”

She once read a book that taught her to think like those with choices — to dream big and bold.
So she said aloud, “You can own the stars, my love — I will find you the ladder.”

She cut the last mango three ways — her eyes lingering on the fruit, her heart on their laughter.
She smiled through the ache, “Let them never know what I chose not to take.”

She had packed her bag three times — maybe more. But each time, she pictured her kids waking without her.
She told herself, “One day, they will understand what I chose. One day, they will thank me.”

Her emotional armour was patchworked and bruised. The sound of their laughter nursed the pain beneath sleep — sometimes haunted by lingering nightmares.

It is the circle — evolving with each generation, as her teenager hurls rebellion through clenched teeth and slams the door.
She breathes, “Help me find the words — to reach, to soften, to build a bridge in this strained silence.”

She waits in idling cars outside school gates, watching little silhouettes disappear into big worlds she can no longer control.
She prays, “Come back whole. Come back kind. Come back when you are ready.”

She nudges you to stay grounded — to honour difference, to share freely, and to lead with kindness, even when the urge to divide grows stronger.
She hopes, “As society reshapes them beyond her teachings, let them never forget their humanity — may they look beyond skin and wealth.”

She sees beyond your cracked smile — the heavy heart, the ache behind your stillness.
She smiles sadly, “This is her path to walk alone. Please let the scar not settle too deep — I will be the place her eyes return to.”

She is there, but not there. She taught you what she knew, how she could.

She longs to shelter you — but she will not. Because one day, she will not be there.

And so she prepares you, gently — for the day you become her.

One day, when you look back — the birthdays, the trophies — your eyes will search for me.
I am there, but I am not there.

As you match the socks, answer the never-ending whys, and soothe fevered brows — my hand will lift you steady, holding you through it all.

My hand is always on your back — tapping you forward, from birth to your final breath.

This is not a fairytale. This is my love: unconditional, unyielding, eternal.
I am your mum. I live in both the now and the never.
I will be repeated, remembered, forgotten, and found.
I will not just be loved — I will be lived.
This is her legacy — not loud, not famous, but forever.

I wrote a short story for the Hope Competition 2025 (results are due mid-2026 — and I cannot wait to share it). It explored the mother–daughter relationship, and this poem grew from that same heartbeat.

It is inspired by my girls, and by my mum.

This New Year 2026, I begin with my thank you — to my dear Amma, Paravthi Devi, to my daughters Vahranyaa and Arya, and to women everywhere — may we honour and cherish the fierce, tender love we carry.

The Son I Raised

There was once a boy who kissed his grandmother’s hand before he ate.
He would lay out her prayer mat before she asked, smoothing each crease like sacred cloth.
He helped his sisters carry groceries and said “Jazakallah Khair” {“May Allah reward you with goodness.” — prayerful way of saying thank you} even when they passed him the salt.
He didn’t just memorize Hadith {“Sayings or actions of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him)” — guidance for Muslims on faith and conduct}— he breathed them.

Once, when he was six, he leaned into her sari and whispered: “Heaven lies at the feet of your mother.” He didn’t know why she cried. He just wiped her cheek with sticky hands and whispered, “I love you so much, Ammi.”

She never dreamed of Janna {“Paradise or heaven in Islam” — the eternal home of peace and reward for the righteous}. The nearness of family, the grace of small moments — that was enough. She only wanted him safe. Safe in his body, mind and soul.

In their household, women were not shouted at. They were listened to — the way one listens to an Imam {“Leader in Islam” — a person who leads prayers or guides a Muslim community in religious matters}: with stillness and respect. There was no pedestal, only presence. Care was not weakness. Reverence was not submission, but a choice.

Her own father had once said, while stirring lentils in a copper pot: “The first mosque is your mother’s kitchen. The first prayer — how you treat her.”

She had never forgotten. She taught her son not just rituals but values: Respect. Integrity. Compassion for all, regardless of colour, wealth, or belief. He was taught well. What he became later was not from her hands.

There were no loud sermons in their home, no scoldings dressed as scripture. Just a rhythm of kindness. A hum of respect. Faith was never louder than love.

Her hijab {“Head covering worn by some Muslim women” — a symbol of modesty, privacy, and faith} was never forced. His prayers were never demanded. Forgetfulness was met with gentle reminders — invitations to return, not rebukes.

They believed what mattered most wasn’t performance, but intention. Love was the discipline. Respect the ritual.

Which is why the betrayal didn’t come like thunder. It came like mist.

First, he stopped greeting his sisters. Then, he began closing his laptop when she entered — not abruptly, just carefully.

He scoffed at things:
At women in hijab. At female scholars. At survivors.

Once, she heard him mutter, “They’ve forgotten their place.” When she asked, “What place?”, he smiled and said, “Never mind, Ammi {“Mother” — a loving and respectful term for one’s mom, commonly used in Urdu, Hindi, and other South Asian languages} ,” and kissed her forehead, as if the gesture could erase the words.

Then she found the books — tucked behind his mattress. Angry printouts. Pamphlets with scorched slogans and cracked logic. He said they were for the debate club.

Then he stopped coming home for dinner.

She waited. Surely the boy who once wept during a war documentary wouldn’t believe this filth. Surely the child who bowed at the sound of the Adhan {“Call to prayer in Islam” — an announcement made from a mosque to invite Muslims to perform the daily prayers} still remembered what it meant to kneel with grace.

But the warmth in his voice turned cold. The reverence became routine. And the silence — the silence was the final alarm.

One night, while waiting for him, she saw it: A red flare outside the window, fired over the school hill. It split the dark with urgent crimson.

It wasn’t an accident.

Later that week, she heard what happened:
A teacher assaulted.
A building defaced.
Hate chalked in words no child should know.

No one was caught.
But the flare stayed with her — a signal. A cry. A dare.

She confronted him.

He brushed past her.
“The world is burning,” he muttered. “You’re just asleep.”

Her hands trembled — not with fear, but knowing. Her boy had crossed into a place she could not follow.
Not with food.
Not with prayer.
Not even with love.

She asked her husband if she was imagining it. He said nothing. She asked God if she had failed.

Then she remembered a verse she once held close:
“Stand out firmly for justice, as witnesses to Allah, even if it be against yourselves, your parents, or your kin.”
 — Qur’an 4:135 {“Holy book of Islam” — believed to be the word of Allah as revealed to Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him)}

And she called the police.

It wasn’t courage that helped her dial. It was motherhood.

Because love is not silence when the flames begin. Sometimes, love is the mother who walks into the fire — to stop her child from lighting it.

The Son I Did Not Raise

He came to her on a Tuesday afternoon. Quiet. Thin. Fifteen, maybe.

The caseworker said he needed a home — not just a place to sleep, but a place where someone might say his name without suspicion. He had a name she couldn’t pronounce at first. A face carved by hardship. Eyes older than they should be — as if they’d watched too much and trusted too little.

They said he was South Sudanese. Or Eritrean. No one was sure. He didn’t say much beyond “ma’am.” He didn’t touch the food.

But he watched her hands.

How she folded rotis while the kettle sang. Rinsed rice three times. Whispered something before opening the Qur’an — not for show, but from memory.

He didn’t pray with her. Didn’t take the dates {“Sweet fruit from the date palm tree” — often eaten by Muslims to break their fast during Ramadan, symbolizing nourishment and tradition} she offered at sunset. But the next day, he asked for a spoon.

She gave him more than that.

A room with clean sheets. A drawer filled with socks — not because he asked, but because boys often forget to. Space for his beads, his music, his language. And something else: the rhythm of safety.

It was the same rhythm her son had once known — before he traded it for rage.

She didn’t call him beta {“Son or child” — an affectionate term used in Urdu, Hindi, and other South Asian languages}. Not at first. That would’ve been dishonest. But when his jacket lay crumpled on the sofa, she folded it. When she heard him vomiting, she left peppermint water outside the bathroom door. When he hovered in the kitchen, she moved aside so he could see.

He stayed quiet that week. Ate in the corner. Flinched at loud sounds. But he never broke anything. One day, he asked: “Why are you kind to me?”

She looked at him, steady.
“Because I know what it’s like to lose a son. And what it means to still be a mother.”

He didn’t reply. But something in him settled.

Later, he spoke of a cousin who vanished. Of the boat. Of men who came at night. Not in full stories — just broken lines, scattered like marbles across days. She picked up what she could.

She showed him where the rainwater was kept. How to line a baking tray. How to fold napkins, the way her own mother taught her.

One evening, from a box of old supplies, she pulled out a flare gun — cracked, unused.

“This was for getting lost in the bush,” she said. “Or needing help.”

He stared at it.
“We used one of those,” he said. “When we ran out of water. A boat saw us. They turned away.”

She didn’t ask what came next. Some flares are seen — and ignored.

She didn’t speak of her son. Not directly. But he noticed the photo in the hallway, turned face-down in its frame. Once, gently, he asked if she had other children.

She said,
“One who forgot what he was taught. And another, who remembers what I never said aloud.”

He didn’t ask again.

The days softened. He began setting the table. Learned how to sweeten her tea — too much sugar, always cinnamon. One night, he asked,
“Do you miss him?”

She nodded.
“Do you hate him?”

She shook her head.
“I mourn the boy I raised. But not the man who broke the world I taught him to love.”

She didn’t teach the new boy prayers. But he sat beside her during maghrib. Not to pray — just to be near.

He got a job at a bakery. Came home with flour on his sleeves and warm bread in his hands. Never said thank you, but left the first loaf at her table, still steaming. She accepted it like ritual.

Once, she heard him singing. Not in Arabic. Not in English. A hymn, maybe. She didn’t know the words, but the sound — cracked and quiet — was healing.

Another evening, he held up a slip of paper. One word scribbled on it.

“Rahmah {“Mercy or compassion” — refers to Allah’s divine kindness and loving care in Islam},” he said.

She turned, startled.
“Where did you learn that?”

“You say it every time you open your book.”

She smiled. Not with triumph — but recognition. Like hearing an echo after years of silence.

He asked once if he could help knead the dough. She handed him the flour.

“You don’t have to be mine for me to feed you,” she said gently. “You don’t have to believe what I believe for me to hold your sorrow.”

They never spoke of the flare again. But sometimes, when the wind snapped through the cracks or the lights flickered, she’d glance outside and remember how the sky once split red — and how not every cry is answered.

But some are heard anyway.

The Sons I Still Love

She never visited the prison, though she wrote letters.
Not to plead. Not to forgive. But to tell him the truth no one else would.
I still pray for your soul. But I will not unbury the bodies for your freedom.

She never said his name in the mosque again. Others didn’t either. His photo vanished from the family wall, replaced by a framed verse. The committee stopped inviting her to events. But at Eid {“Festival in Islam” — a joyful celebration marking the end of Ramadan (Eid al-Fitr) or the completion of Hajj (Eid al-Adha)} , a woman would slip her a sweet and whisper du’a {Prayer in Islam” — a personal way of asking Allah for help, guidance, or blessings}. At funerals, someone would sit beside her in silence. They didn’t say much. But they saw her.

She was not alone anymore. Not truly.

The boy she had not raised moved through her home like someone who had always known its sounds. He brewed her chai without being asked — too much sugar still, but the effort made it sweet. He folded laundry with care, even the garments she once wore while raising the boy she lost. He placed her shoes by the door, cleaned gently with a rag.

One night in the kitchen, he asked, “Do you ever think he’ll change?”

She paused.
“I think some changes are doors. Once closed, they don’t reopen.”

He waited.
“Do you still love him?”

She looked at the flame under the kettle.
“I mourn the boy I raised. But I do not love the man he became.”

There was no anger in her voice. Only the stillness grief had carved.

She began teaching him slowly. Not lessons — just the old ways. How to grind cardamom without bruising it. Which oil to avoid on rainy days. Why you never place an empty plate in front of the grieving.

He didn’t always understand. But he listened.

She watched him grow — not taller, but steadier. Into someone who didn’t flinch when asked a question. Someone who cleaned up after himself. Someone who returned. In time, he smiled — not often, but with meaning.

One evening, he lingered near the hallway. The photo still lay face-down in its frame. He walked over, paused, and turned it upright. She didn’t stop him.

She only looked.

Her son’s eyes stared back at her from the glass — younger, softer, still tethered to a time before the unravelling. A boy who once whispered Hadith into her sari folds. A boy who once believed.

She didn’t cry.

She simply said,
“Even lioness eat their cubs when they grow wild. But some strays… they stay. And those become sons.”

On the boy’s eighteenth birthday, she lit a single candle. Not for celebration, but for balance.

She placed it beside three things:

• The Moroccan tea light she kept beside her prayer beads — small, steady, and warm, like faith itself.
• The flare casing he kept on his dresser like a memory neither of them named
• The candle he once lit for his cousin — quietly, out on the back step

Then she added one more:
A small frame near the door. The verse she once taught her son. The one she still held onto:
“Whoever saves one life, it is as if he saved all of mankind.” — Qur’an 5:32

She was never just one thing.
She was the mother who turned in her child.
The mother who sheltered someone else’s.
The mother who held fire and fed light.

And in the hush between grief and mercy — 
She remained a mother still.

I was inspired to write this story while exploring the idea of parents facing impossible choices when a child strays down a dangerous path. I had been writing for a competition, which I ultimately did not enter, that required the keyword “flare.” To me, the word became an anchor — a symbol of warning, danger, and the fragile line between love and intervention. This is simply a story that needed that flare to ignite its heart.

Author’s Note: Cover art was created digitally to reflect the themes of identity, unseen labour, and quiet transformation.

Thank you for reading.😊

This article is published in Women Write Publication. A growing, strong community built by women for women. All thoughts are welcome.

To join this community, read these submission guidelines.

Submission Guidelines for Women Write Publication

Even Lioness Eat Their Cubs was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Letters From the Line

Poem — Honouring everyday ordinary men who became extraordinary soldiers, defending the lines in these testing times.

This work honours the everyday ordinary people who, in testing times of recent years, became extraordinary soldiers. It is not about one nation or one battlefield, but about the universal truth of war: that those who once built, taught, healed, or created, are called to hold the line when peace breaks. These imagined voices speak as letters — fragments of memory, duty, and hope for tomorrow.

Some say we were teachers, builders, healers, cooks — 
called to war with trembling hands.
Yes, our hands once built block towers and kissed scraped knees — 
now we bear the silence war commands.

War changes names, not hearts within — 
we plant our hopes where ruins lie.
Tomorrow waits beyond the smoke,
where we dream of gardens, laughter, and a land untouched by sirens’ cry.

I patch wounds with trembling hands — a medic in bloodied mud.
Funny, how I once fainted at the sight of a nosebleed in the reading corner.
I was a kindergarten teacher who taught shy kids to share crayons and kindness.
Tomorrow, I’ll plant a garden where no child learns the word ‘shrapnel.’

I care for horses, lost dogs, and broken men.
Strange, how the wounds are the same.
I was a village vet with gentle hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll heal what’s still alive.

I fix drones with parts like toys — quick, quiet, precise.
Funny, how I once fixed toys that let grown-ups relive their innocence and awe.
I was a toy shop mechanic who made old bears sing again.
Tomorrow, I’ll bring laughter back to limbs, not levers.

I carry the cross, praying over the dying breath of men.
Strange, how my quiet chapel became a battlefield.
I was a village priest, whispering comfort at baptisms.
Tomorrow, I’ll anoint joy, not the fallen.

The hands that healed are blistered and bruised.
Dear tomorrow — wait. There’s still more to rebuild.
This is not how my story ends.

I defuse bombs with shaking fingers and prayers intact.
Funny, how precision once meant beauty — not threat.
I was a watchmaker who heard the hush between ticks.
Tomorrow, I’ll wind back time — not watch it fracture.

I build barriers and bridges with blistered hands and gentle air.
Odd, how I once shaped breath into beauty — not defence.
I was a sculptor who coaxed light through molten glass.
Tomorrow, I’ll redefine art, with no need for walls.

I stir giant pots in a field tent kitchen, feeding the fear-worn.
Strange, how sugar was my weapon of choice.
I was a pastry chef who chased the tricolour collar — sculpting sugar into crowns of light.
Tomorrow, I’ll bake for birthdays — not for the grief that feeds in silence.

I pull the trigger, breathe slow, and vanish into silence.
Odd, how I once painted portraits with trembling grace.
I was an artist who studied light and refraction on faces.
Tomorrow, I’ll draw harmony in vibrant colour.

The hands now hold the line between ruin and remembering.
Dear tomorrow — wait. Let these hands build again: only with colour, joy and dreams.

I break codes before they kill.
Strange, how I once loved puzzles for fun.
I was a crossword writer in the Sunday paper.
Tomorrow, I’ll craft riddles that tease the mind and lift the heart.

I speak gently to haunted minds in burned-out tents.
Odd, how I once created lives, not repaired them.
I was a novelist who mapped emotion across imagined characters.
Tomorrow, I’ll write again, stories that soothe and mend.

I jam radars and whisper silence into satellites.
Strange — once I tuned radios, now I silence missiles.
I was a garage DJ spinning records for joy.
Tomorrow, I’ll mix music while sunsets pour into glasses.

I play taps at dusk with cracked lips and closed eyes.
Strange, how music now mourns instead of moves.
I was an orchestra conductor who summoned joy from silence with a raised baton.
Tomorrow, I’ll lead a symphony where even sorrow sings.

That silence drowned our joy — our harmony, our happy ever afters.
Dear tomorrow — wait. Tomorrow, I’ll send our song back into the world.

I scrub poison from walls and fear from metal skin.
Funny, how I once cursed glitter stuck to toilet mirrors.
I was a school janitor with keys to every quiet mess and silent confessions.
Tomorrow, I’ll mop up laughter, love notes and pads wrapped in care.

I scan scorched valleys for the spark of motion.
Odd, how I once chased storm eyes, not missile trails.
I was a weather forecaster tracking flood and pressure on a map of light.
Tomorrow, I’ll chart rainbows and sunshine instead of retreats.

I build simulations that teach when to shoot and where to fall.
Funny, how I once coded dragons and worlds without walls.
I was a game designer mapping joy onto pixels.
Tomorrow, I’ll code clouds and hearts — not combat zones.

I hunt shadows through firewalls and fractured code.
Strange, how I once safeguarded log-ins from thieves.
I was a cybersecurity analyst tracing breaches in peace.
Tomorrow, I’ll rewrite identities that belong to joy, not barricades of fear.

We were architects of trust, the quiet backbone of brilliance.
Dear tomorrow — wait. Tomorrow, we’ll rebuild the future — piece by deliberate piece.

I lift the fallen, carry the heavy back to base.
Odd, how I used to rush toward fire, not away from it.
I was a firefighter who lit birthday candles with a wink.
Tomorrow, I’ll save for joy, not for ashes and absence.

I drive supplies through lands etched with silence.
Odd, how I once memorised every child’s stop on the school route.
I was a bus driver who waved at mums, toddlers, and wagging tails.
Tomorrow, I’ll steer stories back home, safe and sound.

I dig graves in still soil while distant blasts rattle the ground beneath me.
Strange, how I once planted beautiful blooms in quiet parks.
I was a groundskeeper who named each sapling I set.
Tomorrow, I’ll plant what grows, what nurtures — not grieves.

I stitch uniforms torn by rage and war.
Funny, how I once hemmed silk gowns for brides-to-be.
I was a seamstress who pinned dreams with lace and quiet faith.
Tomorrow, I’ll sew for beginnings, for weddings and spring — not endings.

We were the quiet ones who stayed after the sound bled through.
Dear tomorrow — wait. Let us carry your weight in peace, not pieces.

Some say we were teachers, builders, healers, cooks — 
yet here we became something more.
In streets of rubble and dust,
we found the courage to hold the line.

We stitched torn flags with mother’s thread,
and mended bones with songs we knew.
The rationed bread, the smoke-stung eyes — 
yet still, we wrote: “I’m fighting to return to you.”

Each night, the stars looked strangely near — 
like watchful kin who couldn’t speak.
We whispered prayers to rusted steel
and kissed old photos — not sure if tomorrow would come.

Yet still we held the line.
And tomorrow — 
when it comes — 
we will rebuild.

Piece by piece.
Hand by hand.
Heart by heart.

This poem was originally submitted to the Rattle Poetry Prize 2025. It did not place, but I share it here in the belief that these voices — imagined yet real — deserve to be heard. May they honour not only one war, but all wars, and the countless hands that defended lines across history.

Author’s Note: Cover art created digitally to reflect the themes of identity, change, and transformation.

Thank you for reading.😊

This article is published in Women Write Publication. A growing, strong community built by women for women. All thoughts are welcome.

To join this community, read these submission guidelines.

Submission Guidelines for Women Write Publication

Letters From the Line was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Some stories come quietly. This one sat with me for years before it found its words. It is a layered fiction, inspired by my time at Guillemard — and the quiet rituals of two women who passed each other every morning, without a word, but with growing recognition.

As women, we carry a wide bucket of judgment — from others, from ourselves, from systems that forgive men more easily for the same choices. This is a story about what passes between people when language fails — and how, sometimes, strength is the choice to sit beside someone in silence.

The Teacher

She got off the bus at 7:04 a.m. every morning. Rain or shine. Same stop. Same stretch of Geylang Road. She never changed it — not even when the sky threatened or her shoes blistered. The walk wasn’t for steps or speed. It was for her spirit. It was how she arrived.

Geylang at that hour didn’t sleep — it sagged. The neon signs still blinked their last gasps. Plastic chairs leaned like drunk uncles against hawker tables. The air was thick with the after-smell of other people’s mistakes — beer, sweat, incense, perfume, last night’s desperation.

And the women.

Their work was ending as hers was about to begin. Some barefoot, some laughing too loudly, some with smeared lipstick and unlit cigarettes tucked behind their ears. There was one she noticed more than the rest — tall, intense, boots in hand, hair scraped back like she was holding her world together with tension.

They nodded now. Not out of friendliness. Out of familiarity.

Not quite strangers. Not quite anything else either.

That woman walked like someone who had learned to move through the world without apology. The teacher respected that.

She walked past her, past the red-lit karaoke bar, past shuttered blinds and low murmurs, past alleyways that still whispered, and turned into the gate with chipped paint and sagging hinges.

Guildemard Children’s School for the Intellectually Disabled.

No brochure would brag about it. No tour bus would stop for a photo. Just a pale blue block flanked by iron gates, wilting plants, and peeling murals of smiling stick-figure children. And yet, every morning, when she stepped through, she entered something sacred.

They called it the “special school.” They meant it kindly. Or condescendingly. Or awkwardly. She no longer cared. She had been here for eleven years. Long enough to see what others didn’t.

She saw the girl who couldn’t speak but twirled like a ballerina when her aide clapped.

She saw the boy who ran in clapping to his own music, out of sync and perfect.

She saw how joy showed up here — in mismatched socks and crooked grins.

Mei Lin needed her biscuit on the red square of her mat or she wouldn’t eat.

Rani made up songs with words that bent around memory like vines.

Imran flapped his hands when excited — and he was excited often.

To the untrained eye, they looked chaotic.

To her, they were a symphony.

She taught repetition, rhythm, routine.

She taught how to ask for help, how to say no, how to hold a spoon.

But mostly, she taught presence — the kind that speaks louder than sentences.

Some children would never read. Some would never speak.

But they would be seen. Fully. Without pity.

She knelt often. Not just to be eye-level — but to offer reverence.

She learned to read silence like scripture.

There had been a birthday. A small cake. Blue icing. A girl who had never spoken said, “Cake.”

Just that.

Another child gently fed her, piece by piece.

A third hummed “Happy Birthday,” loud and off-key.

No one was told to be kind. They just were.

The world thought Guildemard taught inclusion.

Guildemard breathed it.

She remembered two older students — a boy and girl who always sat together during music.

He gave her his biscuit before eating his own.

She fixed the strap on his walker with soft hands.

He once whispered something that made her laugh.

“Beau-ti-ful.”

The only full word he ever said.

And only to her.

She had to leave the room to cry.

Not because it was sad.

Because it was true.

At 3:15pm, when most had gone, she stayed back. She wiped tables. Refilled tissues. Wrote notes in diaries for parents who barely read them. She folded the day with quiet grace.

And then, she walked back through the gate, the noise of the city rising like a tide.

By now the women were back. The lights were back. The smoke, the slouch, the lean.

And there she was — the same woman.

Now holding a takeaway cup, a plastic bag of fried something. Fishnets with a new rip.

Eyes tired but not dull. Chin still high.

They met eyes. A nod.

And this time — a half-smile.

She noticed a small star tattoo near her collarbone. The way she rubbed her thumb into her palm — like grounding herself. She wondered if she noticed her too — the paint-smudged sleeve, the crooked lanyard, the teacher shoes worn to the sole.

They didn’t speak. But something passed between them.

Not story. Not pity.

Just knowing.

Two women. One road.

Each walking away from a day spent tending to someone else’s hunger.

Each carrying exhaustion stitched into bone.

Each quietly refusing to disappear.

She didn’t know her name.

She didn’t need to.

But tomorrow, she’d nod again.

And maybe — one day — she’d stop.

Just long enough to say, I see you.

The Other Woman

She stubbed out her cigarette on the curb. Not because she was finished — but because the teacher was coming. That woman deserved clean air.

She passed her most mornings. Not always at the same minute, but close enough. The woman always looked the same: a tote bag worn in the corners, a lunchbox wedged inside, and tempera paint somewhere on her body — fingers, wrist, or a streak across her sleeve. She didn’t dress like someone saving the world. She walked like someone who had chosen her place in it.

That woman worked with children who struggled to find words.

She worked with men whose hearts had gone silent.

And in between them stretched this strip of road — pulsing with shadows and routine, still warm from last night’s noise. One woman walked toward a school gate. One walked toward a bus stop. And both walked away from other people’s weight.

She never smiled first. Not because she thought herself better. Because a smile meant too much in her world. A smile could be permission, an invitation, a price.

She gave nods instead. Simple, sovereign. The teacher always nodded back. A rhythm formed.

She didn’t know her name. But she liked the way the teacher carried herself — like her hands were used to being gentle. Like she spoke softly but never doubted what she was saying. There was something in her — not charity, not pride — something steadier.

She wondered what the teacher thought of her.

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

She had made her choices — and that mattered.

She hadn’t fallen into this work. She stepped into it. The day she quit the last job — some cash register in a 7-Eleven with a boss who pinched her waist and expected more then just work — was the first day she understood the power of saying no.

She created her own rules:

No one touched her face.

No lies about who she was.

No pretending she enjoyed what she didn’t.

No forgetting who had the final say.

She’d met men who came with fists, and some who came with flowers. The fists never returned. The flowers never stayed.

Not all of them came for sex.

Some wanted to be held.

Some wanted to cry.

Some wanted to sit in silence beside someone who wouldn’t ask why.

There was one man who brought puzzles. Crosswords, always half-finished. He said nothing. Just sat beside her, pencil tapping, breathing softer by the minute. When he left, he always said, “Thank you for the quiet.”

They didn’t want her body.

They wanted her presence.

They wanted a witness.

She didn’t give them more than she chose to. That was the rule.

She lived in a flat in Aljunied — top floor, corner unit, the quiet kind of space that listened more than it spoke. She had just three payments left. After that, it would be hers, in name and in peace. No landlord. No favours. Just years of work no one congratulated her for.

She had potted plants. She killed the first two. The third one survived. She took that as progress.

She still had dreams. Not the big, cinematic kind. Just quiet ones.

A morning without makeup. A meal she didn’t eat standing up. A day that ended without someone else’s breath in her hair. A man — maybe — who didn’t need to be rescued or worshipped. Just a man who saw her. Fully.

She thought — maybe one day — a different kind of work. Not because this was unworthy, but because her body wasn’t built for endless nights. She felt the ache in her joints now. Her knees gave warnings. Her back stiffened when the morning light came in sideways.

Still, she would do it again.

She had said no to being swallowed. No to being used without choosing it. No to waiting for someone else to name her value.

That mattered.

People often assumed she hated her work. That she lived in regret. That she curled into herself each night, ashamed.

They didn’t understand.

This job had taught her the power of stillness. The price of pretending. The difference between being wanted and being loved.

She had made her choices. And her choices had taught her resilience — the kind that doesn’t shout, but sits with its back straight.

The world called her by many names.

She answered to few.

That morning, the teacher slowed as she passed. The nod lasted longer. Almost a smile. Their eyes met.

She noticed the teacher’s band-aid on one finger. Her scuffed shoes. The soft crease in her blouse that said she’d bent low to lift someone else.

She didn’t pity her. She respected her.

And for the first time, she wondered — what if they sat? Just once.

At the bus stop. Two women. Two different ends of morning.

No talk about work. No questions.

Just a seat shared. And maybe, a stillness neither had to carry alone.

She finished her cigarette, crushed it beneath her heel, and looked at the sky.

It looked like the clouds were holding something in.

She picked up her boots. Walked toward the bench. Tomorrow, she’d sit.

And maybe the teacher would stop.

And maybe they wouldn’t have to say a single thing.

Two women. One road.

Each holding someone else’s heartbreak.

Each quietly saving what they could.

The Crossing

It began the way most mornings did — the teacher stepped off the bus, the air still cool, the city not yet fully awake.

But something was different.

The woman was sitting at the bus stop.

Not passing by. Not lingering at the corner with a cigarette. Sitting. Boots off. Coffee cup in hand. A sliver of sunlight catching the curve of her cheekbone.

The teacher paused — unsure if she should keep walking.

Then she sat.

Not close. One seat apart. The kind of distance that let silence breathe. Not performative, not curated, just present.

Neither woman spoke. Not right away.

They watched the traffic roll past. A man wheeled a cart of bao across the street. A group of schoolboys laughed too loudly. The sound passed through them like wind.

The woman tapped her coffee lid with slow rhythm. The teacher adjusted the strap on her bag and smoothed the crease in her skirt.

It was the woman who spoke first.

“Rough morning?”

The teacher smiled, just a little. “Not yet more looking towards a little rowdy fun as we start with music time.”

“What do they sing?”

“Whatever they want. Sometimes it’s a mash-up of nursery rhymes and… chaos.”

The woman let out a low laugh. “That’s not so different from my nights.”

They let that sit — the overlap. The poetry of it. Not too neat. Just true.

The teacher glanced sideways.

“I see you most mornings,” she said.

“I know,” the woman replied. “I try not to look too tired.”

“You always look… like someone who survives.”

The woman exhaled softly. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. Something in between.

“You look like someone who stays.”

The teacher didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

They talked about the weather. The price of kopi. The way both of them now woke before alarms, out of habit, not need.

They didn’t ask each other’s names.

They didn’t trade stories or compare pain.

They didn’t need to.

But they saw each other.

One taught children who screamed without language.

One held men who whispered without hope.

Different hours. Same ache.

The teacher looked at her hands — scarred, painted, lined with quiet labour.

The woman looked at hers — ringless, sure, used to being asked for more than they were owed.

Both sets of hands rested on their knees.

Steady.

When the bus pulled up, neither moved right away.

Then the woman stood, slowly. Slipped her boots back on. Looked at the teacher and said, “Tomorrow?”

The teacher nodded. “Same time.”

And with that, the woman boarded the bus.

The teacher watched her go, then turned back toward her own road — the school, the children, the noise that wasn’t really noise.

That day they saw each other. Fully. Without translation.

The children clapped, rocked, flapped —

their longing worn boldly on their skin.

The men whispered, paid, pretended —

their longing buried deep in silence.

Different rooms.

Different hours.

Same hunger.

The children sought love that didn’t demand performance.

The men sought love that didn’t disappear by morning.

And both — in their rawest moments —

were asking the same thing:

Will you still hold me, even like this?

That was the irony, wasn’t it?

The world separated them with labels.

But the ache was one and the same —

to be seen. Not for what they gave.

But for simply being.

And it was women like them —

the teacher with painted wrists,

the woman with tired boots —

who bore that ache.

Who cupped it gently.

And said, without judgment, without fear:

“I see you. You’re still worthy.”

And in a city that so often mistook strength for noise,

they had found the rarest kind of grace:

The strength to simply sit.

Together.

Two women. One Road.

This story was first written for The Moth competition — it did not place.
But perhaps, it was never meant for a prize.
Some stories come quietly. They stay with you, stitch into your memory, and wait patiently to be told.
This one sat with me for years.

If it moved something in you — however small — I would love to hear your thoughts.
Leave a comment, share a moment, or simply let me know how it made you feel.
And if it resonates, please share it forward. You never know who might need to be reminded they are seen.

#WhenOurStoriesCross

Author’s Note: Cover art was created digitally to reflect the themes of identity, unseen labour, and quiet transformation.

When Our Stories Cross was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It begins with a breath,
a cough,
a whisper carried across a room.

One spark, unseen,
clings to the air — 
a shadow or a flame.

Like the flu, like a fever,
fear spreads quick:
panic fogging windows,
sorrow seeping through walls.
Grief multiplies — 
one death makes a hundred mourners,
each carrying the ache
as if it were their own.

But so does laughter.
A single giggle cracks silence,
splinters into another,
and soon the air is thick
with joy contagious as summer rain.
Smiles ripple like fireflies in the dark,
warmth infecting every heart in reach.

Yet these days,
happiness is no longer contagious.
You share it,
and silence answers back.
Side-eyes linger,
envy burns slow.

Social media turned joy into boasting,
success into theft.
Happiness shared is reduced
to a thumbs-up,
a heart tapped on a screen — 
instinctive from the thumb,
not rising from the heart.
No applause, only suspicion:
Why you? How you?

And even the smile — 
once the gentlest contagion — 
turns fragile.
More people turn away now,
as if a curve of lips were intrusion.
But a smile is not a weapon.
It is not harassment.
It is not an invitation.
It is simply a hello — 
told without words,
but with eyes,
and a smile.

This is why parents warn:
choose your circle well.
Because herd mentality is real — 
we rise or fall by those beside us.
Walk with those who lift you,
and you learn to rise.
Walk with those chasing shadows,
and in a moment of weakness
what you once refused
you may accept.
Addiction spreads like any contagion,
and those who offered it
will be the first to leave you carrying it alone.

Humans are not built for sage lives.
We are a village,
a community.
We thrive and nourish
in circles of support and love.

And yet, luckily,
some things remain untouched.
At a temple,
devotion spreads like fire — 
incense rising,
ands pressed together,
faith echoing in every chant.
At a freedom parade,
drums beat like thunder,
voices braid into one song — 
a chorus of respect,
of identity unbound.
At a funeral,
the scent of jasmine garlands,
the silence between sobs — 
grief still unites us,
tears flowing not only for the one lost,
but for each other’s breaking hearts.
At a wedding,
hope still multiplies,
henna-moist hands vibrant,
families wrapped in every color of the rainbow,
to be one — rising in vows
to stand together
through better or worse.

We are hosts to it all — 
the laughter and the sorrow,
the envy and the devotion,
the blessing and the burden.
Every touch, every word
is a carrier.

What will you release into the air?
What contagion will your breath become?

This poem “Contagion” — is my reflection on how emotions, choices, and culture spread between us just like illness once did in the pandemic. Fear and grief multiply quickly, but so can laughter and kindness — if we let them. Yet in today’s world, I feel happiness often gets met with envy or silence, and even something as simple as a smile is misread. At the same time, I believe in the timelessness of rituals — prayer, freedom marches, funerals, weddings — where human connection still flows honestly from one person to another.

Inspiration — I wrote this piece as a reminder, both to myself and to others, that we are always carrying something that spills into the world. We may not control how people react, but we can choose what we release — whether it is bitterness, or compassion, or love. Writing this gave me hope, because I realised that even when joy feels fragile, the deepest currents of faith, community, and togetherness remain strong. I hope this poem encourages you to think about your own circle, your own smile, your own voice — and to know that what you carry has power.

Some legacies are heavy. We inherit them without question, carry them without pause, and only years later realise — they were never truly ours…. For me, it began with my hair. Not just as appearance — but as heritage, identity, and expectation. This is a story about the weight of inherited beliefs and the quiet courage it takes to question them.

Sometimes the hardest lessons are not about learning something new — they are about unlearning what no longer serves us. Learn to Unlearn is a reflection on the quiet courage it takes to let go, the transformation that follows, and the life we create when we dare to write our own story.

The Learning

They say Draupadi’s rage lived in her hair.

She was the fire-born princess of the Mahabharata, one of the oldest epics in human history — a woman of beauty, pride, and devastating intelligence. Publicly humiliated by men who gambled her dignity away, Draupadi unbound her long black hair and vowed never to tie it again until justice was served. Her hair became a symbol — not just of shame, but of unrelenting resistance. She wore it wild as a curse. As a prophecy.

And for generations after, little girls were taught: “A woman’s hair is her honour — once lost, nothing can restore it.”

She had grown up believing that.

In the fairy tales she grew up with, hair was not just a feature — it was a lifeline. Rapunzel was rescued by her braid. Sleeping Beauty’s golden curls were preserved under a spell, untouched by time. Even witches were cursed, yet blessed with thick, wild hair in untamed abundance — an ironic testament to their dangerous magic. There were no bald princesses. No heroines with thinning crowns. From a young age, she absorbed the message: femininity was something that grew, shimmered, and bounced.

She was taught a woman’s hair was a kind of inheritance — passed down not in strands of gold, but in rituals and whispered stories.

Her grandmother would sit in the courtyard at dusk, the sun slipping behind the temple spires, and talk of the Yakshis — spirits of the night who wore their hair unbound. Some were feared as purely malevolent, while others were worshipped as fertility deities. Their tresses, she said, were so long and black they could wrap around a man’s throat like a lover’s embrace — or a curse. In these stories, hair was never just hair. It was seduction, a veil, a weapon.

Her mother would hush her, worried that such tales would give her daughter reckless dreams. But even then, the girl understood that these bedtime stories were meant to spark her curiosity as much as instill fear and set clear boundaries. Through her grandmother’s tales, hair became myth.

Her mother’s hair was legend. Not just long — but majestic. A single, sleek braid trailed like liquid silk down her back, thick enough that you could pull a wooden comb through it without ever catching a knot. It always smelled of hibiscus — not from store-bought oils, but from backyard rituals: crushed petals, warm sun, whispered songs. The comb itself was wide-toothed, carved with peacocks, and never touched by anyone else.

“With each knot, I offer this prayer of order in a world of chaos,” her mother would say, her voice soft as she braided. I watched, feeling her ritual become my own lesson in hope and continuity. Even then, I knew my mother’s will to hold herself together — her conviction that every braid could bind the fractures around her — stood stronger than whatever storms the world conjured.

Every night, her mother combed her hair like a prayer — slow, patient strokes that seemed to brush the day off her body. Hair, in their home, formed the roots to her story: Esteemed, Ethereal, Exemplary.

So she learned to worship it. She brushed with reverence. Tied it with silk ribbons. Learned to flick it over one shoulder just so. She was praised not just for her eyes or voice, but for the halo that crowned her head.

The Aunties spoke of hair in hushed, reverent tones — calling it a crown, a burden, a promise. A girl’s first braid was a rite of passage. Her first grey strand, a quiet declaration that she now held authority. The day she chopped it would feel like mourning, not of choice. It was part of her soul, carrying memories, family pride, and everything left unspoken. The more she learned about hair, the more she realized how heavy that legacy was — and how it had never really been hers to carry.

“Your mother passed on her gift,” the aunties said. “You must protect it.”

And she did.

Until it began to disappear.

The Unlearning…

It started quietly. A few strands on the pillow. Then the shower drain. Then the parting line widening like a secret crack. At first, she panicked. Then she performed.

Root powders. Toppers. Serums with scents so aggressive they gave her headaches. She coughed through chemical sprays that claimed to conceal thinning instantly, but stained her collars and darkened her nails. Her scalp itched with rebellion. And beneath the masks, she began to rot.

Not from shame — but something more bitter.

Humiliation.

Self-disgust.

A quiet kind of invisibility.

She remembered one particular moment. She was running late for dinner — hair half-done, patience threadbare. In an impulsive reach to adjust her parting, her fingers came back smeared in black. The fibres hadn’t stuck to the spray that day. The illusion had failed. A strand too far — a lie too exposed.

She looked at her hand — stained, guilty, exposed.

And something inside her sank.

She had masked her fear in vanity, but vanity had turned on her.

She washed her hands in silence, scrubbing harder than she needed to, until the sink was blackened, and her fingers were raw.

It wasn’t the mess that shattered her.

It was the helplessness. The loss of control.

It was about losing the story she had told herself her whole life — that as long as her hair was thick and shining, she was whole. She was worthy. She was seen. Her mother had never spoken of weakness. No one talked to her about the fear.

Her beauty had once drawn admiration.

Men turned. Friends complimented. Even strangers stared a second longer. But the ones closest to her — family, admirers, even old friends — called it attention-seeking, desperate, too much. She had grown up watching the line between beauty and manipulation get blurred, then weaponized. Somewhere along the way, she learned that being admired meant being suspected. And being visible meant being used. She learned that a girl’s beauty was never just hers. It was a prize, a temptation, a reason for caution.

So when people praised her looks, she flinched internally — unsure whether she was being seen or assessed.

She never knew how to accept that attention. Never knew how to wear desire proudly. She feared being called a gold-digger, a user, a narcissist. She wore beauty like borrowed jewellery — fragile, questionable, always a little too shiny for the room.

Her husband never called her these things.

But she remembered the way others looked at her when he did — as if he had been tricked, as if she was a prize with a trap.

So, she performed instead. Smiled the right amount. Looked pretty but not provocative. Dressed well but rarely demanded to be seen. She thought this was balance. She thought this was grace.

But it was just dilution.

A lifelong effort to become palatable.

Her body still moved through the world. Her voice still laughed on cue. But inside, she felt like a shadow rehearsing the role of the woman she used to be.

She wrote in her journal:

Hair carries memory. It holds scent, sweat, salt, smoke. It tucks away our secrets. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much to lose it — not because it makes us ugly, but because it makes us forget who we thought we were.

Am I becoming nothing more than a memory: fading, faltering, fragile?

She no longer reached for her husband in bed. Not because he changed — but because she did. Because she didn’t want to be seen — not under the lights, not even under the moon. Her hair had been her filter, her glow, her glamour. Without it, she felt exposed. Unworthy of desire.

Still, she smiled. She performed.

Until she couldn’t.

She read that hair preserves DNA and chemical signatures, making it a powerful forensic tool — literally holding a biochemical record of your body’s exposure, acting like a personal diary that investigators and genealogists can decode.

During COVID, she watched men refuse to shave — appearances softened, like lumbering bears — then marvelled at how a simple trim could restore decades of youth. She saw hair frame the face, hide the flaws, or offer sneak peeks of ache.

She began watching women who covered their hair. Not out of oppression — but choice. Women in headscarves whose eyes gleamed with sovereign fire. Women whose sensuality came not from what they showed, but what they chose to withhold.

And one night, she stumbled across a ritual from an old Haitian tradition — hair clippings buried in cloth, tied to tree branches, meant to trap memory or release grief. She thought of every clump she’d discarded without ceremony — and wondered what memories she’d inadvertently set free.

Another video described voodoo beliefs that hair holds power — a vessel for intention, envy, even curses.

She thought of every strand she’d shed on salon floors, on combs, on bathroom tiles.

What had she unknowingly offered the world?

And then the tears came.

Not elegant. Not poetic.

She wailed — a guttural cry she didn’t recognise. Years of silence cracked open in one primal release. Her shoulders shook. Her breath broke. She screamed until the ache left her bones.

And when the storm passed, it left her hollow.

But not empty.

She realised.

She was ready.

The Relearning

She shaved her head on a Wednesday.

No audience. No candles. No ceremonial playlist.

Just her, a towel, a mirror, and the clippers buzzing like bees around a flame.

It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t rage.

It was… surrender.

To truth. To weightlessness. To beginning.

She touched her bare scalp and didn’t recoil. There was something strangely sensual about it — exposed yet untouched. Vulnerable yet sovereign. She stepped into the shower and felt the water land like raindrops on earth long denied.

Later that evening, she texted him:

I shaved my head. I didn’t ask. I know. I needed to do this for me.

She acknowledged it. The breach. The boldness.

This wasn’t an act of defiance or rebellion.

It was an act of coming home.

She had done it without permission. And still — she didn’t regret it.

He never asked why she spent so long in the bathroom each morning.

Never questioned the powders or the sprays that turned the air metallic and sharp.

Never remarked on the sudden switch to scarves at night, the lights she turned off before he entered the room.

He didn’t need to.

Because he understood — not the details, but the shape of her silence.

And he knew better than to trespass there.

He had watched her long enough to learn that there were places in her heart that even he was not invited.

He remembered the early years of their marriage, when her hair had been the first thing he noticed — dark as still water, how it fell like liquid silk down her back. He once joked, “How much do you spend at the salon?” She only laughed and said she didn’t need it — her hair was a ritual she wore effortlessly.

He had told her once, half-asleep in the gentle hush of their room, that he would love her even if it all turned to silver.

She had laughed softly then, burying her face in his chest, as if to hide from the tenderness of it.

Over time, he learned that her silence was not an accusation.

It was a fortress, whose tall walls kept pain at bay.

She wasn’t punishing him.

She was protecting herself — and, in a way, him too.

So he stayed close but didn’t push.

He watched as she drifted further into that silence, the way her laughter grew brittle, her smile more measured.

He felt the distance, but he didn’t try to bridge it with questions or reassurances.

Because he understood — sometimes love isn’t about fixing.

It’s about witnessing.

It’s about being there, quietly, until the fortress crumbles from within.

He didn’t know the stories she carried — the tales of hair as heritage, the weight of every strand as a vow to women who came before her.

But he could feel it in the air between them — the gravity of her grief.

Even his love could not fill the emptiness that only she could name.

And so he waited, with the patience of a man who knew that some transformations are meant to be solitary.

When he came home, she was wearing a scarf. Not to hide, but to soften the transition.

He looked at her — longer than usual.

And she saw it — not judgment, not confusion, but a pause.

Like he had stopped seeing just the outline of her.

And was now seeing through to her.

That night, they didn’t speak much. But his hand found hers while they watched TV. And before bed, he ran his fingertips over her scalp with such gentleness she had to close her eyes.

He didn’t say, “You’re beautiful.”

And she didn’t need him to.

Her husband never rejected her.

He didn’t stop loving her.

But she had drawn the veil.

She had pulled back not out of punishment — but protection.

There are some journeys a woman must take alone.

Not because no one loves her.

But because only she can carry the questions,

And only she can earn the answers.

Because for the first time in months — maybe years — she saw herself.

Not the hair.

Not the lack.

Her.

She wrote: I AM REDEFINED, RECLAIMED, RESOLUTE.

She had learned beauty.

She had unlearned performance.

And now, she was relearning power — not the kind you wear on your head,

but the kind that simmers beneath the skin,

waiting to rise in flame.

If this story has stayed with you, please share it with someone you care about. Sometimes, one story at the right time can be a turning point.

Author’s Note: Cover art created digitally to reflect the themes of identity, change, and transformation.

Learn to Unlearn—Shedding What Was Never Truly Yours and Rewriting Your Life was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.