takeupthecall

 Epilogue (Tara’s Final Note — Years Later) Time turned its pages, but some stories never leave us. Reading those diary entries, living through Arundhati’s aching words, left a lasting imprint on me. I was young then — curious, and perhaps already drawn to understanding the unspoken pain of those around me. But her pages didn’t just inform me — they transformed me. Years later, I pursued psychological sciences, hoping to make sense of the quiet chaos that so many women endure alone. I went on to become a school counselor in a reputed public school. Life gifted me a daughter — and with her, the familiar worries resurfaced. One day, I noticed something. A shadow where light used to dance. Silence where laughter lived. I had seen it before — in Arundhati’s journal, between lines of poetic anguish. This time, I was not helpless. I held her, and I wrote — not just for her, but for every daughter who needs to reclaim herself. This is what I gave her that day: --- If You’re Tired of Walki...

 As Tara gently turned the fragile page, her eyes caught sight of a few scattered lines — fragments of thoughts, half-written phrases, emotions left suspended in midair. The words, once vibrant and flowing, now faltered, incomplete, as if the author herself had run out of strength to hold the pen steady. These unfinished echoes told a story of a heart overwhelmed by solitude and silence, where language began to slip through the cracks of a weary mind. It was a quiet surrender — a pause in the narrative — leaving Tara to wonder what dreams remained unspoken, what healing remained undoneThis book is more than just a story. It is a mirror reflecting the delicate, complex journey of every woman who carries the weight of unspoken battles. Mental health is not a mere footnote in life’s pages—it is the foundation upon which we build our strength, resilience, and love. Without tending to this inner world, the brightest hearts can flicker and fade, and the gentlest souls may find themselves...

 I have lost everyone. My bitterness, my anger — they pushed away those I once held dear. My husband has left me, unable to bear the weight of our fractured bond. My children, tired of the storms I create, have distanced themselves. Now, I stand alone in this silence, confronting the emptiness I brought upon myself. In this solitude, I poured my pain into words — this poem is the echo of a heart abandoned, a soul wrestling with the consequences of its own making. Poem: You have been lying all these years... You were the witness to my silent tears.... Telling me the stories that were so fake... Believing you was not the right crack to take.... Now as I stand alone at the crossroad.. It was a fool’s paradise which you offered me as abode. The breathers that I sheltered in are so suffocating now, The burden of this reality is all I have to tow... The smile you gave that danced on my mind.. Has now started to gradually unwind. You tried putting very little ice on an unending fire .. No...

 I had become bitter. The frequent fights with my husband drained the warmth from our home. As my daughters grew, I found myself slipping away from the mother I wanted to be. There were moments of deep despair when, in the heat of an argument, my husband told me to leave the house. But I couldn't. Leaving meant risking the fragile balance needed to raise my daughters with grace. So, I stayed. And in that quiet, painful space, I wrote this poem — my silent battle, my truth. --- Poem: The House That Wasn't Mine You asked me to leave your place— And I didn't walk out with a brazen face. I clutched dreams already torn and frayed, And knew too well: neither love nor respect had stayed. Had I said the same words to you, You wouldn't have been wounded through and through. Because deep within, you’ve always known— This house was yours, and yours alone. All other truths? Just claims in name, While I lived here—barely a part of the frame. As I stand guilty of strangling my own wo...

 1. Anecdote: From Arundhati’s Journal I don’t know when the mirror stopped reflecting just a face and started showing me everything I’m failing to become. Every morning, I get up and rehearse the same routine: wear confidence like a sari and tie courage into my hair with every pin. I smile at Dheemahi as if I have answers to all the questions life will ask her. I laugh with the little one as if my own heart isn’t aching with unknown fears. I know my shadows. I’ve met them in the dead silence of the night, in the gaps between my own words. And yet, I must stand strong—because mothers can’t afford to break down in front of their children, right? But I fear the day when they will start seeing through me. The day when my daughters will catch the tremble in my voice, the vacant blink in my eyes, the sighs between sentences. That day, I will no longer be their hero—just a woman trying hard to be one. So, I wrote something last night. Something I couldn’t say to them aloud, not yet. --- ...

 I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Everyone is here—my family, friends—they say they support me, but still, I feel completely alone. It’s as if I’m trapped inside my own mind, a silent room where no one can reach me. The weight of caring for this tiny life, so innocent and fragile, is crushing me from within. I smile when they smile, I nod when they speak, but inside, a storm rages. There are moments when I just want to disappear, to escape from this overwhelming flood of emotions I can’t control or explain. The baby cries, the sleepless nights—they blur into one long, exhausting fight. I don’t know why I feel this way. I thought I would be happy, but instead, there’s this unbearable sadness, this restless ache. I try to hold onto hope, but it slips through my fingers like sand. I call out to the girl I used to be, but she seems to be fading farther away, lost in a frenzy I cannot catch. --- Arundhati’s Poem Acknowledged for the pain she endured... Respected for bringing a...