takeupthecall

 No one liked Mrs. Arundhati Sen. Not her children, who had long stopped calling. Not the neighbours, who said she was too sharp, too proud, too bitter for her own good. And certainly not her estranged husband, who had quietly rebuilt his life in another town. So when the ambulance came and took her away after the stroke, there weren’t many questions. The locks were changed, the curtains drawn, and the flat at the end of the third floor went still, like a chapter turned too soon. A week later, Tara stepped into that stillness. Tara—the daughter of Arundhati's long-time housemaid—had come not to mourn, but to clean. It was the least she could do. After all, it was Mrs. Sen who had quietly paid her school fees one year when her mother couldn’t. It was Mrs. Sen who had scolded her for skipping classes, and later, smiled when Tara showed her the school certificate. No one else had cared as much. The house smelt of medicines, old books, and a silence too heavy for words. Tara dusted eac...

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 worth, Promise me to never paint this house as “ours” again, wrapped in mirth. Staying in your home will remain my greatest crime, And with it, I bid farewell to my dignity, for the last time. Surprisingly, not you or I are the gravest at fault— It’s those who’ll seize the moment, driven by greed's assault— Those who’ll prey on me or our children’s need— Yes, they are the real culprits behind this deed. Amita Joshi