Mamma gone crazy!!

Raising a teenager is never easy, but raising a superactive, multi-talented teenage daughter? That’s a whole different roller coaster ride.

My daughter is a whirlwind of energy, grace, ambition, and unpredictability. She dances like a dream, a beautiful Odissi performer who has graced prestigious stages, thanks to her Guru’s tireless training and unshakeable belief in her. 💃

She sings Western music with such confidence that she just bagged a gold medal in an interschool solo singing competition. 🎤 She’s in the school music team, wins in interhouse events, recently got a gold in basketball 🏀, and oh! Did I mention she's also a purple belt in Karate? 🥋

She paints (when she feels like it), with a style that even her teachers rave about. Her handwriting is the kind that teachers want to photocopy and pin to their walls.

And then there’s her love for English. 📚✍️
She reads endlessly, books, articles, true crime stories, and writes beautifully too. Her vocabulary, expressions, and articulation often leave me stunned. There’s a budding storyteller, a sharp communicator, or perhaps a powerful journalist in the making.

And her dreams? Let’s just say she dreams BIG; from flying fighter jets for the Indian Air Force to becoming an architect, or a fearless journalist unearthing hidden truths, inspired by The Sabarmati Report and the Godhra train incident. 🛫🏛️📰

But... ask her to open her textbooks, and everything crashes.

😵‍💫 The Homework Tantrums & the Eye-Rolling Olympics

The moment I say, “Time to study,” it begins! the tantrums, the sighs, the eye rolls that could win gold if sarcasm was a sport.
“Later, Ma!”
“Just five more minutes…”
“Tomorrow, promise!”
(Only tomorrow never comes.)

And there I stand, heart full of love, voice rising with frustration and wondering how to nurture her spark without burning both of us out. 💔

💖 Seeing Her for Who She Is

I see her. I really do. The way she lights up on stage, the quiet pride when she completes a drawing, the passion when she sings, and the fire in her eyes when she talks about flying a fighter jet to avenge Squadron Leader Ajjamada B. Devaiah — her inspiration from the 1965 war, a brave pilot who gave everything for his country.

She’s amazing. I don’t say that lightly.
But traditional academics? That spark fades. 📚❌

She just doesn’t feel connected to it. She says it’s boring. And yes, she perks up a little when I teach her — but let’s be honest — I’m not an academician. How much can I help?

Still, I know — dreams, even the wildest ones, need a foundation. They need focus, discipline, and yes… studies.

🧠 Turning Resistance into Relevance

So I’ve started connecting the dots for her:

✨ “Want to be a pilot? You need math and physics.”
✨ “Want to be an architect? You’ll need logic and precision.”
✨ “Want to uncover truth as a journalist? You need to read, write, and know the world.”

Sometimes it sticks. Sometimes it doesn’t.
So, I repeat the truth I want her to hear:
“You’re smart.”
“You’re capable.”
“You’re a winner.”
Even when the books stay closed.

😤 The Fights, the Frustration… and the Fierce Love

Oh yes, we fight. So. Many. Fights.
Some days, I yell.
Some days, I cry.
Some days, I storm out to the terrace, take deep breaths, and let the cold wind hit my face — hoping it will clear the fog of guilt and exhaustion. 🌬️

But I’ve learned:

• I don’t have to fight every battle.
• Giving her some control over when she studies helps more than deadlines.
• She needs me to listen, not lecture — even when I badly want to fix everything.

I’m learning to meet her where she is — not where I want her to be.

📝 My Game Plan (and Maybe Yours Too)

Here’s what I’m trying — not perfectly, but with love:

1. Structure with flexibility 📅: A routine that balances dance, music, studies, and downtime — without suffocating her.
2. Smaller goals 🎯: One worksheet before Odissi, one topic before dinner.
3. Celebrate effort, not marks 🏆: Praising the try, not just the win.
4. Role models over lectures 👩‍✈️🎤🏛️: Helping her talk to people who live the lives she dreams of.
5. Quiet connection time 🤝: Sometimes we lie in bed and talk. Sometimes we just stay silent and scroll together. And that’s okay.

💭 For Me, As Her Mother

I’m not just raising a daughter.
I’m raising someone who challenges me to grow. Every. Single. Day.

Some days I feel like I’m failing.
Some nights I whisper sorry to her sleeping face.
But then… I see her dance. Or sing. Or write something powerful. Or talk about a future she wants to build — and I remind myself:

We’re doing okay.
We’re just figuring it out — together.

🌈 My Hope for Her

I don’t want her to become someone she’s not.
I want her to become everything she already is — but with a little more focus, a little more balance, and a lot of courage.

Because she’ll fly — I know she will.
And until then, I’ll walk beside her…
Holding her hand when she reaches out.
Letting go when it’s time.
And loving her fiercely through every tantrum, every triumph, and every tiny step forward. 💗

🚨 A first job. 📋 A call from home. 📞 A fall from the terrace. 🏢⬇️
A mother lost. 👩‍👧 A mystery buried. 🕳️

This is not just my story - it’s a question still waiting for answers. ❓🕯️

We were four girls - fresh graduates - full of hope, curiosity, and ambition. My dad, our ever-supportive guardian 👨‍👧, accompanied us on a journey from the eastern part of India to the west, to join a company in Ahmedabad. It was a campus placement of sorts - our big break.

🚆 It took us three days by train to reach the city. We arrived on Maha Shivratri, and the streets were eerily quiet. The company had arranged for our stay - an apartment just opposite the office. It felt perfect. Life was about to begin.

🌅 A New Beginning Interrupted

The next morning was our first day at work.
Dad had gone out to meet a friend in the city.

As I was settling into the office, I was called into the cabin by Mr. Chandak, the company owner.

📞 “There’s a call for you.”

It was Utpal Jethu. His voice shook.

“Your mom has fallen from the terrace. She’s badly injured. Joydeep da is taking her to the hospital. Find your father.”

I froze.
🧠 My mind went blank. No phones. No clue where Dad was.
No way to find him.

🚶‍♀️ Lost in a New City

After what felt like a maze of language barriers and directions, I somehow reached the location shared by Jethu - and found my dad.
He didn’t say much. Just listened. His face hardened.

We rushed back to the office.
I explained the situation and apologized profusely to Mr. Chandak for not being able to work on my first day.

🙏 He was incredibly kind - he arranged flight tickets for us. We didn’t have the money to pay him then, but there was a promise to return it as soon as we could. He even booked a cab to take us to the airport.

At the airport, I called Jethu again.

📵 That’s when it happened.

“She didn’t make it.”

I was shattered.

😢 Grief That Never Left

Throughout the flight, I hid my face in a shawl and cried.

When we reached home, people had already gathered.
I saw Bapi Da - and a wave of anger surged through me - but I stayed quiet.

🍽️ Someone offered dinner. I couldn’t eat.
I had never eaten without Ma.

🧊 The Body Arrives

The next morning, Dad went to bring her mortal remains.

When they returned, she was wrapped in a blue plastic sheet.

Only her face was visible.

🕊️ One side was peaceful as if Ma is sleeping.
💔 The other - smashed, swollen, unrecognizable.

My little brother ran into my arms.
For days, he didn’t leave me.
Not even to let our father touch him.

🧩 The Inconsistencies

We took the police to the terrace.

🔍 There was a heavy bench, dragged, placed next to the wall.

👣 A footprint on it.
🧷 Ma’s hair tie lay nearby.

Below, shards of her bangles were scattered - far from the wall.

Inside, her toothbrush, with paste still on it, lay untouched on the washbasin.

🧠 Who prepares to brush their teeth and then chooses to jump off a building?

The police refused to register it as a murder.
They asked us to call it provocation to suicide.

🕵️‍♂️ The Whispers Begin

Neighbors whispered stories.
The security guard had been shouting immediately after the fall:

“Mrs. H committed suicide! Mrs. H committed suicide!”

Who told him that?

The first to reach her was RDS.
He saw XXX speeding off on his bike, fully dressed, helmet on, early in the morning.

Why was he ready to leave? Why didn’t he stay?

Joydeep da managed to get a cab and take her to the hospital - but it was too late.

🧠 My Theory

My brother had just left for school.

Ma was getting ready - maybe brushing her teeth, maybe thinking of what to pack for his school visit at 10 a.m.

📲 XXX called her to the terrace.
💪 He had already moved the heavy bench.
👿 When she reached, he grabbed her by the hair, climbed onto the bench, and threw her over the wall.

She hit multiple window sills as she fell. Her bangles shattered. Her hair tie came loose. Her body bore the evidence.

But the police turned away.

🔒 Justice Denied, But Never Forgotten

We later found out Dad had filed a complaint - but in a different jurisdiction.

Maybe to protect us. Maybe to avoid what could come with making it public.

But the truth still haunts us.

Someone paid their way out.
And we were left with silence.

🕯️ She had toothpaste on her toothbrush. A normal day was just beginning.
And then… everything ended.

Ever had a dream that left you somewhere between memory and meaning? 🌙🧠

I dreamt - I was writing an exam for my brother… ✍️📄
Only to watch time, emotions, and roles blur across a classroom that wasn’t mine. 🕰️💭🏫

A short story about caregiving, pressure, and second chances told through a letter, a teacher, and a dream that stayed with me. ❤️📚💫

The exam hall was humming with silence - that strange, concentrated stillness where minds are loud but voices quiet. I was there, pen in hand, pouring careful words onto paper. Not for myself, though. I was writing on behalf of my brother. 🖊️

He sat on the bench just ahead of mine, head bent, scribbling on his own sheet. Different subjects, different struggles. Still, in that moment, it felt like we were sharing the same exam, just taking it differently.

Once I finished the letter, I walked up to the invigilator and hesitantly asked if the formatting was okay. She glanced at it, nodded. I returned to my seat, satisfied. Leaning forward, I whispered to my brother, “It’s done.”

He looked back, eyes defiant and determined. “I want to write it myself,” he said. Before I could say anything, he tore the paper. The very paper I’d poured effort into. And then, with a strange calmness, he started writing from scratch.

Minutes later, he walked out of the hall. 🚶‍♂️

Then it happened. The smart screen at the front flashed:

"Time’s up." ⏰

Panic struck me like lightning. ⚡ I looked at his empty seat, then at the clock, then back again. My legs moved before my thoughts did. I rushed out, calling his name - or maybe not his name. It didn’t sound right. Not the name I’ve always known him by. A blur of urgency. The teacher joined me in the search.

Soon, she returned, eyes wide.

“He’s been found. He’s injured.” 🩹

The scene shifted. I was outside now - in a garden where scattered students lounged like fallen petals. 🍃 And then, I saw him. He was being carried by two others. He looked smaller than I remembered, fragile. Without hesitation, I ran and took him into my arms, lifting him in a way that defied physics but made sense to the heart. ❤️

His fingers were bloodied, bandaged, and swollen. “Can you write?” I asked, already knowing the answer. He shook his head gently.

Back in the hall, I faced the invigilator. “English is his favorite subject,” I said, not knowing why.

A voice called from the doorway. “History too!”

I smiled. “That’s Anwita Ma’am’s doing,” I replied - a little inside joke from another part of life. 📚

Then, he began to dictate. Slowly, clearly. His voice was calm, like waves guiding a paper boat. And I wrote again - this time, not alone, but together.

Just as I finished the letter and started chit-chatting with ma'am, my alarm went off. And I woke up. 🌅

🪞 Reflections: When Roles and Realities Overlap

After waking up, one detail stayed with me longer than the rest - the mention of Anwita Ma’am, my daughter’s history teacher. She has no connection to my brother, yet in the dream, I credited her for his love of history. And the setting itself - the exam hall with a smart screen - felt more like my daughter’s school than anything from my own past or my brother’s.

It made me wonder: why did my mind bring these two worlds together? 🤔

Perhaps it’s because, in some ways, I don’t see myself only as a sister or only as a parent - the roles blur. I’ve often found myself supporting those I care for in ways that go beyond labels. Whether it’s my daughter learning in a modern classroom or my brother navigating life in his own way, I find myself constantly toggling between guidance, protection, and quiet support. 🫶

Maybe Anwita Ma’am represents the kind of influence I admire - someone who inspires a love for learning in a natural, lasting way. Maybe I wished my brother had someone like that too, at a time he needed it. Or maybe I was simply drawing from a familiar part of my life - my daughter’s daily school experiences - to fill in emotional gaps in the dream.

The smart screen flashing “time’s up” added urgency, but also a sense of modern structure and pressure - something I’ve noticed in today’s academic environments. 📺⏳ My brain seems to have layered the dream with the present-day reality of my daughter’s learning, adding elements of routine and responsibility I associate with her world.

So while the dream began with my brother, it quietly folded in echoes of parenting, of teaching, of caregiving, of wanting to do right by the people I love, even if they are on different journeys. 🚸

“Because sometimes, helping means doing. Other times, it means waiting until they ask. And the real test? Is knowing when to do which.” ✅