I was still me but wasn’t myself. Everything was happening on a fast pace and I was very slow to process it.
Nothing here was familiar.
And then, while sitting alone in the balcony, I could not believe what I saw. I never thought, I would see him again. He was right in front of me.
I was rash with happiness but then I compiled myself and said, I thought, it was impossible to see you again.
I am here, he said in his loud voice.
Let’s go, he said by holding my hand.
I just got up without thinking for even a second. I was following him but a thick blanket of fog covered the ground and made it impossible to trace his steps.
I could just see his glimpse and kept following it.
After a while, we reached in front of a big wooden familiar door. It was brown in color and carved beautifully.
He pushed the door, and it was my home.
Home where I grew up.
Home where I played with my siblings.
Home where I was so carefree.
Home where I was my father’s dearly.
Home where I planted that rose.
Everything is same, nothing has changed, I thought in my mind.
Mummy is there cooking on chulha as usual, Sanjeev busy in his own world, Sudha as always pampering herself.
Then we all sat down on the floor in a circle and ate our food like we used to do before. We are having conversations but this time not about my marriage, not about our relatives who are very keen to see me getting married, as we used to do before as a ritual daily.
Immediately, I heard a voice calling my name, it was coming from downstairs. He told me to go and check.
I went downstairs running and it is my husband, very stressed.
I am leaving for work, please help me find my wallet, he said.
I saw it lying on the side table and gave it to him and he left the house for work.
I excitingly ran back upstairs as if a new energy had filled me and also I didn’t want to miss anything.
As soon as I reached upstairs, I was left in shock.
There was no door, no home, except an empty terrace. But there was a home until a few moments ago.
Home where I lost my father.
Home which is no more my home.
Home which holds memories.
Home which my brother sold.
Home which I am not allowed to buy.
Despite all the progressive ideals defining the empowerment of women, why do they still suffer from such social attitudes? The answer surprisingly lies within the unit of an Indian family.
The girl is taught to be more homely, timid, submissive, obedient and even taught to dream only of being a good wife, mother and homemaker (the ideal being one who does not raise her voice). From being a daughter to wife to mother, she loses her identity.
She has a burden