Loud Whisperer

The Invisible Cradle Here, in my part of the world, a child’s arrival doesn’t begin with a nursery or a registry. It begins when the baby is in our arms. We buy a few clothes, a mat, some diapers. We don’t overprepare — not because we’re careless, but because we’ve been taught it’s unwise to get too ready for something before it happens. Anything can go wrong. And maybe that’s true. But lately, I’ve been realising there’s another kind of readiness we never talk about. The invisible cradle. At 35, when people ask me, “Do you have kids?” and I say no, they follow it with, “How long have you been married?” They assume my answer is temporary, not a choice. They assume I’m ready.  But I’m not. Not in the way I wish to be. What they don’t see are the years of therapy, the slow, messy work of healing the parts of me I didn’t even know were broken. They don’t see the grief I carry — for my parents, for myself, for every child born to parents who don’t know how to love themselves. My parent...

Some lessons come too early. But they stay — shaping how you see, how you speak, and how you choose. I was younger than ten when my grandfather taught me empathy — the difficult, political kind. The kind that asks something of you. We lived on a plantation. The workers were always around — familiar, almost like family. I don’t even fully remember why we visited their homes. Maybe we were just playing. What I remember more clearly is the kanji — the simple rice porridge they were served at our house. And how they would still share what little they had, even with us kids. I used to eat it with them, happily. Until one day, I mentioned it to my grandfather. I expected a smile. Instead, he asked, “Have you ever thought about their family?” He said the food they offered came from limited resources. That every bite I took might mean one less for someone in their home. I was angry. Why tell me this? Why not my cousins? But something changed. I stopped eating. They would still call me...

There are people you don’t even have a photo with. You didn’t visit their house every day or sit down for long conversations. You didn’t share milestones. But when you think of home, they’re there. In the background. In the air. My neighbors were like that. We lived in a close-knit community. I met them only occasionally, but whenever we did, they made their presence felt. Not loudly, just through small, hearty gestures. Pampering. Advice given as if I were their own child. Calling me mole — a word in Malayalam for daughter, spoken with love. Some of it used to irritate me. I'd wonder, “Who are they to tell me this?” But now I see it was care, offered freely. When they passed away, I didn’t cry. There were no grand emotions. But something shifted quietly. Their house still stands. But it no longer feels like theirs. New people live there now. My nephews call it by a different name. But for me, it will always be their house. Because I still hear their laugh when I pass by. I remembe...

Chaotic days are far from over. New house, new city and new boundaries- to learn and set. The unfinished tasks are mocking the perfectionist and control freak in me. Not a minute goes by without my brain flashing the never ending checklist- the one I want to chuck away without even looking at. In this mayhem, come the days when you want to just pause- even your brain. Stretch your leg and just watch the endless sky. Not stopping to wonder what patterns the clouds are making. Not thinking whether I should take a pic to show the world what i feel. Not planning the next task for today or the days to come. Not dwelling on what went wrong in the past.  I wish there was a remote controller for thoughts- something to pause them. To just float like a cloud, without direction and without worrying where it will take me. Just feeling the breeze. Closing my eyes. May be I will see what I haven't seen before. Or hear what I couldn't. May be I will discover the quite joy in simply existing. ...

Home. It’s supposed to be a constant, a place that anchors us while we navigate the ever-shifting tides of life. But what happens when we return and find the anchor has slipped, the familiar landscape transformed into something foreign? The walls stand sentinel, unchanged. Familiar faces move through the rooms. Yet, a subtle shift has occurred, a dissonance that vibrates in the air. The space that once cradled me now feels distant, as though I’ve become a visitor in a realm I once commanded. My childhood bedroom, once a sanctuary, now belongs to someone else. The responsibilities I used to shoulder have been redistributed, leaving me adrift. Though I’ve visited countless times before, this return feels different, the disconnect deeper, more unsettling. Perhaps it’s the loss of control, the inability to shape the space as I once did. The familiar clutter, once my domain, now feels intrusive. A primal urge to organize, to reclaim some semblance of ownership, clashes with the stark re...

Today began with the devastating news of yet another suicide within our family’s close circle. Each time such news breaks, the narrative often turns to blame. “How could they do this? Didn’t they think of their family?” These questions haunt conversations. But is that really the core of why someone, especially a child, takes such an irreversible step? I find myself wondering—what must have been their last thoughts? Was it the fear of embarrassing their loved ones? Or the belief that they had committed an unforgivable mistake? Did they feel like a failure in the eyes of their parents, teachers, or society? Could their path have changed if they had access to someone—a trusted circle, a mental health professional—who could hold them and tell them, “You are more than this mistake. You will be okay.” This news took me back to my own past, to a time when I struggled with similar thoughts. I remember the harm I caused myself, the shame that followed, and the helplessness of feeling like there...