Finding My Voice: A Reflection Inspired by Sarzameen

I recently watched the film Sarzameen, a story layered with themes of patriotism, militancy, and parenthood. While all three were powerful, it was the portrayal of parenthood that stayed with me the longest. It stirred memories I had tucked away—memories of my own childhood, of a time when my voice was trapped behind hesitation, fear, and silence.

As a child who stammered, I didn’t struggle only with speech—I struggled with shame. What hurt more than the inability to speak fluently was the reaction it drew from those closest to me. In many families, unfortunately, a child's speech difficulty is met not with patience, but with ridicule. When parents mock—whether playfully or out of frustration—it sends a clear message: you are not enough. And siblings, unknowingly or otherwise, often join in.

This constant sense of being “different” and “less than” is deeply traumatic. Home, which should be a safe haven, becomes a place of judgment. Slowly, the child retreats inward, silenced not by the stammer itself, but by the fear of being laughed at or dismissed.

But life has a strange way of placing the right people in our path.

People who listen without rushing.

People who see the person, not the problem.

People who simply say, “Take your time, I’m here.”

It was through such kindness that I began to heal.

I found my voice not through therapy alone, but through acceptance.

Through love.

Through belief.

I hope the people who stood by me during those fragile years find their way to this post. Your support may have seemed simple or ordinary at the time, but for me, it was life-changing. A special thank you to that one person—you know who you are. I will remain forever indebted to you.

From being the child who couldn’t utter a single word in class…

To someone who now speaks confidently, without hesitation, in any room—

That journey has been long, painful, beautiful.

And I write this today not just to reflect, but to remind every parent, every sibling, every teacher, every friend—

Your words can wound. But they can also heal.

Choose the latter.

Welcome Home... To Yourself. 🏡💫

Some films don’t just tell a story — they open old drawers inside you, quietly bringing back the memories you thought were folded away forever. The Marathi film Welcome Home did just that to me.

As I watched, I wasn’t just seeing a story — I was reliving mine.

The day I decided to separate and walk out from a long relationship…
I didn’t expect celebration, but I didn’t expect such isolation either.

“Stay in a hostel — you have no place to go". They said. 

“Leave the children.”

“Start working. Move on.” And the harshest of all — “Why do you need the children?”

And amid all these instructions, opinions, and judgments, not once did someone say,
“Come to me.”
“Come home.”
“We’re here.”

No one opened their doors.
No one opened their arms.
Everyone was ready to tell me what to leave… but no one told me what I could hold on to.

But I did hold on.
To love.
To truth.

I couldn’t leave my children. To the only thing that ever felt like home — my children.
They were not a burden — they were my breath.
I wasn’t willing to walk alone, not because I was weak — but because I was still a mother.

They didn’t ask me for strength.
They became my strength.
In their acceptance, their quiet resilience, and their unshaken presence —
I found the home no one offered me.

And over time, a few others appeared —
Not loudly, but gently.
They didn’t say “I understand,” but they stayed.
They listened without fixing, stood without judging.

When we are finally surrounded by people who accept us as we are —
who don’t ask us to explain our brokenness,
but simply sit beside it —
our eyes don’t tear up out of agony… they soften out of peace.

Welcome Home isn’t just a film title.
It’s the moment when the ache of abandonment is slowly replaced with the quiet warmth of belonging.
When you realize — home isn’t always a place, or a person.
Sometimes, home is the version of you who refused to give up.
And the few hearts who stayed close while you rebuilt yourself.

To my children — thank you for being my home.
And to those few who stood by when I had nothing to offer but honesty —
you are my welcome back to life.

Welcome home. Truly. 💛

When the House Grows Quiet

 A reflection on solitude, longing, and the quiet search for companionship

There comes a time in life when the laughter of children becomes a memory,
echoing faintly through the quiet halls of a home once brimming with life.

The days—once marked by packed tiffin boxes, school runs, and soft lullabies—
begin to stretch long and slow. The phone rings less often. The doorbell barely chimes.
And the silence, once a luxury, starts to press in—soft, yet heavy.

At this age, when the heart has given its best years to nurturing others,
and the body begins to crave rest more than adventure, something else quietly emerges—a yearning.

Not for excitement. Not for novelty. But for presence.

A warm cup of tea shared in the morning light.
A gentle disagreement over the TV remote.
A hand resting softly on another during long silences.
Not words, but nearness.

For years, the belief stood strong:

It is better to be alone than in a toxic relationship.
And that truth still stands—unshaken.

But even peace can feel hollow, when it comes with too much quiet.
Loneliness doesn’t shout. It whispers.
It creeps in slowly, like twilight, wrapping itself around everything.

How many things can be knitted? How many dishes cooked? How many stories watched on screens, when life itself feels paused?

Advice arrives like clockwork—
Join a class. Take a trip. Reconnect with friends. Find a hobby. Hit the gym.

But what if none of it fits anymore?

What if the soul no longer craves activity, but authenticity?
Not crowds, but connection. Not noise, but meaning. And not pity. Never pity.

Just understanding.

There’s a kind of companionship that doesn’t ask for grandeur. It asks for truth.
A meeting of two quiet lives, seeking warmth—not thrill.
Honesty—not promises.

Two people who understand that sacred moments are the simplest ones—
sharing silence, watching the sky change colours, growing with grace,
and holding space for each other’s dreams and griefs.

Does such companionship exist? Rooted in kindness, not convenience?

Somewhere, perhaps, others feel the same.
Not broken. Not desperate. Just quietly yearning.

Waiting. Hoping.
Wondering how to walk the rest of life’s path— not alone,
but beside someone
who also knows
what it means
to be strong
and still feel the emptiness when the day ends.

Maybe it is not about filling the silence—
maybe it is about finding someone
who doesn’t mind sitting in it.

The Quiet Echo of Motherhood

My precious miracles, my heart’s deepest dream—you, my children, my entire world. Being your mom isn’t just my role; it is my soul’s greatest purpose. I poured every ounce of myself into you, a love so boundless it consumed me, wrapped me in its warmth, and gave me life. I was the one who kissed your fevers away, cheered the loudest at every tiny triumph, and mended your broken toys with the same fierce tenderness I used to heal your tender hearts. “Mummy ko sab pata hai… Mummy sab theek kar degi,” you’d whisper, and oh, how I tried—giving you roots to stand firm, wings to touch the sky, every piece of my being to make you soar. You were my beautiful chaos, my loud, messy joy, and I’d have given my last breath for you then, just as I would now.

I was your hero once, your safe harbor, the answer to every question. But time has shifted us. My arms, once your cure for every hurt, now wait empty; my words, once your gospel, now met with a gentle “Haan pata hai Mumma.” The calls grow quieter, the hugs rarer, and I’ve become a whisper in your bustling lives—a sender of wishes, a payer of bills, a steady shadow on the sidelines. I see you shine—friends, dreams, career, love filling your days as they should—and my heart swells with pride. But I miss the scribbled “I love you, Mumma” notes, the surprise embraces that lit up my world. Now, a “Happy Birthday, Mom” feels like a fleeting mark on your calendar, and I smile through the ache, because that’s what mothers do—we let you go, piece by piece, with love that never falters.

Yet this isn’t the end of motherhood—it’s a tender transformation. Even when you’re near, earbuds in, screens glowing, I feel a thousand miles away. Did I cling too tight? Speak too much? My heart twists—do you still see me, or am I fading into the background? But I know this shift is life’s quiet gift. I gave you roots to stand tall and wings to fly free, forgetting I had wings of my own, tucked away beneath the years of giving.

Now, I’m learning to soar again. These hands, once soothing your fevers, now knit and crochet dreams, capture light in photographs, and cradle passions I’d set aside. My heart, tethered to your every scraped knee and bedtime tale, is rediscovering its own rhythm. I’m more than your mom— I am also a woman with stories yet to write, laughter yet to share, and adventures waiting. The silence isn’t empty; it’s where I find myself. And still, my prayers rise like a heartbeat: May you be healthy, kind, fearless. May you chase dreams that set your souls ablaze, find love that steadies you through storms, and hold each other close—tighter than my roots ever could. May you always know you’re my forever, carved into my very bones.

Even when we stumble—when you forget to call, when I hover too near—my love stands unshaken. You’re adults, my miracles, building lives I cheer for from afar, and I swallow the jagged quiet of missed moments with a smile. “Sorry, Mummy,” you say, and it’s enough—because love bends, it bruises, it endures. I’m no longer your center, but I’m still here, arms open, heart full, your biggest fan, your safe shore. 

This unraveling is brutal and beautiful. Those Facebook memories—chubby cheeks, tight hugs, belly laughs—wreck me, tears falling as the past slips through my fingers. Enjoy this, I whisper, because it flees so fast. You’re my always, my life’s greatest masterpiece, my largest project, and now it’s my turn to soar—broken, alive, and wildly free. I will stand here, arms open, heart full. Still your biggest cheerleader. Still your safe space. Whether you call once a day or once a week, I will be here, loving you with the same fierce, unwavering devotion that brought you into this world. Because you are my forever.