Maithily's Scribblings

Eleven years ago, on this very day, our family grieved all over again. My mother passed away on May 8, 2015. While the initial rituals were completed within a few days, one final responsibility remained. Since she had been cremated, we decided to take her ashes to our ancestral graveyard, where my great-grandparents and grandparents were buried. On June 15, 2015, we laid her ashes to rest. Along with them went her favorite sarees, her notebook, the pen she always carried, and several belongings that had been a part of her daily life. As we buried those ashes, it felt as though we were saying goodbye to her all over again. Her ashes were the last tangible reminder we had of her, and letting go was not easy. Six years later, in 2021, I was pregnant with my daughter. My due date was June 7, 2021, but God had a different plan. Days passed, and there were no signs of labor. We waited and waited. By June 13, I had crossed 40 weeks, and labor was induced without much success. On the night of ...

TVK leads but falls short of majority — here's what the numbers say right now. What is a hung assembly? A hung assembly occurs when no single party or pre-poll alliance secures a majority of seats in the legislative assembly. In Tamil Nadu, that number is 118 out of 234 total seats. When this happens, the Governor steps in and invites the single largest party to prove majority on the floor of the house — typically within two weeks. Is it happening right now? Based on live trends as of this morning, yes — Tamil Nadu appears headed for a hung assembly. TVK is the single largest party, leading in 108 seats. But 108 is not 118. That gap of 10 seats is everything right now. Neither DMK+ nor AIADMK+ have the numbers to form a government independently either. Combined, DMK and AIADMK could technically cross 118 — but a union between two parties that have been sworn political enemies for over 50 years would be nothing short of a political earthquake. What happens next? If the trends hold, ...

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...

Today (18-Feb-2026) was my husband’s birthday. There was no lavish party. No grand dinner outside. Just a simple celebration at home. And somehow, that made it even more special. Last night, without anyone asking her, my daughter had drawn a picture for her dad. The moment I told her in the morning that it was Appa’s birthday, she ran to him and gave him her handmade drawing. Then she proudly declared that she would decorate the house for him. She was beyond excited. The morning felt unusually calm. As always, I packed his lunch — beetroot methi chapati with cauliflower, sweet corn, and cashew gravy. But today, he didn’t have to drop our daughter at school before heading to work. That small change made a big difference. He left home before 8:00 AM and said, almost smiling, that he had eaten peacefully after such a long time. Maybe that was the best gift I gave him this year — a peaceful breakfast and an early start to his day. As he reached the office, birthday messages fro...

Again, the intention is not to compare but sometimes experiences redefine standards. When Kidzee Sayajipura sent a notice about the annual concert, something inside me tightened. It was a paid event. No compulsion. And the class teacher personally asked us if we wished to enroll her. That itself felt different. Respectful. Thoughtful. A big tick. Practice Without Pressure The practice schedules were always within school hours. Only once was it on a Saturday — and we were informed well in advance. Yet deep inside, I was frightened. I was anxious. I had bad dreams. There were moments when I wanted to withdraw her from the program. I wasn’t ready to face another technical failure. I wasn’t ready to relive another invisible performance. I wasn’t ready to fail her again. Every day when I picked my daughter up from school, her class teacher would gently tell me, “She danced well today,” or “She needs a little more practice.” That communication meant everything. The childre...

The intention here is not to compare. But the wound is so, so deep that I had to pen this down — hoping that writing it might help me forget… or at least move on. Today, I received a video from Kidzee Sayajipura and saw my daughter dancing in full swing. It was beautifully captured by the school’s professional videographers. Watching her made me happy. But it also triggered something. It pulled me back to those dreadful days — the ones that still haunt me and quietly hurt me from within. Her first performance in Pre-KG was something I eagerly looked forward to as a mother. Like every mother, I was excited beyond words to see her dance on stage. We were seated far from the stage, but we managed to watch her perform. We clicked a few long-distance photos and videos on our phones. The event was live-streamed, and we were assured that a professional HD copy would be available online. We returned home tired but excited. We opened the video to relive the moment. And that’s when my hear...

 That was the name of the first house we stayed in after our marriage — in beautiful Mangalore. Mangalore was magical. Lush greenery everywhere. From our balcony, I could see endless coconut trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The view felt alive — peaceful, fresh, comforting. It was a simple two-bedroom, semi-furnished flat. It had almost everything we needed. More than the furniture or the space, it held our first memories as a married couple — learning each other’s habits, sharing laughter, building routines. I loved staying there. My mom visited us there once. I can still remember her presence in that house — her voice, her warmth, her quiet approval as she saw me settle into this new phase of life. But after she passed away in May 2015, something changed. The same house that once felt full began to feel empty. I started having nightmares. I missed her so deeply that every corner reminded me of her visit. Her absence echoed louder than the silence. And I realised somet...

This happened around the 18th of July, 2014. We were newly married, still learning about each other, slowly trying to become friends before anything else. My husband usually returned home around 8:30 or 9:00 PM. So when the doorbell rang at around 6:00 PM, I casually assumed he had come home early. But when I opened the door, it wasn’t him. It was his colleague, Sharma. He handed me my husband’s mobile charger and casually asked how he was doing. I was confused. I told him my husband hadn’t returned home yet. That’s when he said something that froze me. “There was a small accident at the office. Something fell on his head. He left in the morning itself.” My heart stopped. I didn’t know what to think. Tears started flowing instantly. Seeing me cry, Sharma tried saying something to calm me down and left. With trembling hands, I kept calling my husband. After a few attempts, he finally answered. He said he was at the guest house with his friend — the place where he used to stay ...

In these twelve years of marriage, as far as my memory stretches, my husband has never once told me what he wanted to eat. Never asked for a special dish. Never made a request. But on 10th February 2026 , something changed. For the very first time in twelve years, he said he wanted to eat green gram gravy. And I don’t know why… but it felt so incredibly special. On one hand, I was already running out of ideas about what to cook. And on the other hand, this man — the man I love so deeply — had finally asked me to make something just for him. There was no grand celebration. No dramatic moment. Just a simple request. I hurried into the kitchen with a smile I couldn’t hide. I prepared the green gram gravy with extra care, and for a change, I even made urad dal rice — something I was trying for the first time. The entire process felt different. Warm. Meaningful. Personal. It wasn’t just about cooking. It wasn’t just about food. It was about being needed. It was about being asked....

I am someone who loves celebrating my birthday. As a child, it was exciting. But after becoming an adult, it became something deeper, a day I consciously set aside for myself. A day where I felt special. A day where I allowed myself to enjoy the little things that make me happy. But in August 2025, my birthday carried a different weight. On the 28th, my father-in-law passed away. It was one of the most devastating moments of my life. He was not just an elder in the family; he was my guide, my guardian, someone whose presence anchored us all. His last rites were planned for the 29th. My birthday. I was shattered. I was grieving. I felt lost. Gowri Athai was with me throughout. She picked me up from the Chennai airport, brought me to Cuddalore, and took care of me like my own mother. In that moment, when I had lost someone so significant, she became my quiet strength. Even while I was mourning, my phone kept lighting up. Friends and relatives were calling and messaging to wish me....