Maithily's Scribblings

Since I work from home, my daughter often mimics everything I do. I have my office desk set up at home, and right next to it is her little writing desk. While I’m busy typing on my laptop, she quietly sits beside me — reading her books, colouring, or drawing. But the moment I step away for a tea break or even a quick restroom break, she jumps onto my chair. And that’s her moment. She starts typing — or at least, what she believes is typing. To make it more fun for her, I even got her a wireless keyboard. She happily uses it and genuinely believes she’s helping me with my office work. A few days ago, she wanted to do some “real typing.” So I opened Notepad for her. She started pressing random keys — letters, numbers — and looked so focused doing it. Then she said something that made me smile. “Amma, I also want a salary… I’m helping you with office work!” Today, she wanted to try again. This time, I told her to observe what I was doing. She noticed me pressing two keys togeth...

Three days after writing “ The Mother I’m Afraid of Becoming ,” a strong guilt lingered inside me. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it stayed. I began noticing something uncomfortable — my daughter had been trying her best to be the best version of herself… for me. She had been adjusting to my constant changes. Listening carefully to what I said. Watching me more than I realized. And then it struck me. She wasn’t just listening. She had been imitating me. She screamed at the top of her voice — because that was what I did when I was overwhelmed. She kept a long face when upset — because that was how I reacted in anger. She played alone in the living room — because I stayed in my room, working on my laptop, telling her I was “busy.” If she wasn’t supported, how would she truly understand what was right and what was wrong? That Sunday, something shifted. I sat beside her and read her a story. It was about a little boy who refused to put his toys back in place. Later, ...

On 31st January 2026, my daughter was performing a Durga dance for her annual feast. Her excitement was sky-high. On 30th January, just a day before the event, we received her costume. We opened it carefully, checked every piece — and that’s when we realized something was missing. She didn’t have bangles. For a Durga costume, bangles are not optional. They complete the look. Without wasting time, we rushed to our usual go-to shop — Bombay Sale at Kodiyar Nagar. To our surprise, they didn’t have bangles for a four-year-old. We thought, “Okay, maybe another store.” That “another store” turned into roaming almost every familiar stretch we knew. Kodiyar Nagar. VIP Road. Harni. Amit Circle. Sama. Shop after shop. Not a single store had bangles for such a small child. We were genuinely shocked. How could something so basic be so hard to find? After hours of searching, we finally decided we would somehow manage with the few mismatched ones we had at home. And just when we were...

I have already written about how much I love my grandfather’s house in Supparayapuram. That house was never just a structure. It was my childhood’s silent witness. Front Entrance But now, it stands half-demolished — fragile, unsafe, and no longer suitable to use. After serious thought and discussion, my father and my chittapa have decided to demolish it completely and build a small new room in its place. Not something grand. Not something modern and flashy. Just something that gives the space life again. When I look at the recent images, my heart feels heavy. I don’t just see broken walls. I see my grandmother walking through the wide kitchen. I see my grandfather sitting outside, lost in thought. I see the lemon tree that stood proudly near the side. The curry leaves plant that always smelled fresh. The huge kitchen — fully equipped even in those days. The water storage “thooti” near the kitchen. The narrow pathway that led to the backyard. Every corner carries a memory...

  I am a mother to a 4.8-year-old girl. And often… I feel like I am not a good mom. I don’t know if other mothers feel this way. But some days, the guilt sits heavy on my chest. It’s just my husband and me managing everything at home. We both work full-time. He goes to the office; I work remotely. He is incredibly supportive. We share responsibilities — cooking, cleaning, caring for our daughter. He has never left me alone in this journey. Because of him, I have been able to build and sustain my career after becoming a mother. If not for his support, I wouldn’t have had the courage to continue working. Since moving to Vadodara, I spend almost 20 hours a day with my daughter. And she imitates everything I do. There are beautiful things she picks up from me. But there’s a darker side too. My temper. My tone. My impatience. My harsh words. Before becoming a mother, I was never around babies much. I didn’t know how to raise one. Some days I manage well. But most days, I ...

Since moving to Vadodara, I’ve been missing office life more than I expected. Not just the work — but the spotlight. The training sessions. The energy of team interactions. The personality development programs. The collaborations. The monthly meetings filled with ideas and debates. I miss the face-to-face conversations with colleagues. The spontaneous brainstorming. The learning that happens in hallways. The feeling of walking into a room full of ambition. When you shift cities, you don’t just change your address. You quietly step away from a version of yourself. In January, our office annual awards took place. For the past two years, I had done the voice-over for the event. This year too, I contributed — but remotely. Sitting miles away, recording from home, sending files back and forth. It felt strange. I missed being on the stage. I missed the lights. I missed the applause. I missed the possibility of either giving an award… or receiving one. I told myself it wa...