takeupthecall

 After months of implorations, years of solo parenting, She began to feel guilty for not being able to make him fall in love with his own children. Her smile waned, took a sabbatical, and eventually left her forever. She could only see her flaws — for that was all that was ever highlighted. And one day — no, not in a day — it was a continuum. So healing couldn’t seep in too soon — the vacuum was far too  deep.

 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...

 Anecdote: Sometimes, I find myself feeling guilty—wondering if I love my second child the same way I loved my first. Deep down, I know my love is equal for both my daughters, but sometimes, something inside me shifts. Is it the hormones? The exhaustion? Or something I can’t quite name? These feelings confuse me, and though I celebrate the blessing of my newborn, a quiet struggle lingers within me. In this entry, I try to capture the magic of new life, even as shadows quietly gather. --- Poem: latent dream that turned true... Magic unfurled when I found you... Ripping apart my anxiety, when you came.. Blessings were spelled, all the pains seemed so lame ... Living the happiness that were long due. We are seeing the best of ourselves in you. When you look for me, my worth rises manifold. Reinforcing true love can't be bought or sold... Relishing to see you walk making all the endeavour... I promise you this love will last more than forever ❣️❣️ — Amita Joshi --- Tara’s Reflection: A...

 Chapter: Shelter in Pages Anecdote In her late twenties, Arundhati Sen began to drift inward. The early years of her marriage, once painted with warm conversations and shared laughter, had grown quiet. Disappointment hung in the silence between her and those she once counted on for warmth and understanding. She turned to books—not just for escape, but to decipher the people around her. To understand why those she loved seemed to drift further away, and why her own voice was beginning to feel foreign in her own home. Through pages and poetry, she sought a language that would not shout or plead, but one that might reach—gently, deeply. Books became her quiet confidants. Not to argue with the world, but to make peace with it. In them, she found acceptance—not of everything around her, but of her own aching heart. And so, she wrote… --- Poem: Shelter in Pages I took the shelter of you To influence my loved ones who seemed to lose track of life... To coax my own people who won’t listen...

 There was a time when my life had grown dull — not tragic, just tasteless. A kind of slow erosion where laughter fades into duty, joy slips into habit, and silence becomes the default reply to everything. I wasn’t unhappy. I wasn’t happy either. I was just… surviving. The house was spotless, the meals were warm, but I felt like a ghost moving through a life that wasn’t mine anymore. And then — she came. My daughter. Born under stark hospital lights and sleep-deprived prayers, her tiny wail cracked open a chamber in my heart I didn’t even know was sealed. Her arrival was not just the birth of a child. It was the rebirth of me. Suddenly, there was music in the mundane. Even exhaustion felt beautiful because it had a purpose. Her purpose. I watched her sleeping beside me — fragile, curled, miraculous — and felt a surge of love so fierce, so humbling, it moved me to tears. That night, I picked up my pen — for the first time in months — and wrote. This poem is what spilled out of my ov...

 She wasn’t ready — none of us were. Ma came from a quiet village with a softer pace, softer dreams, and maybe a softer heart. But that morning when Baba didn’t return... something inside her changed. She cried, yes. Loud and uncontrolled. But somewhere in that ocean of grief, she began stitching herself back together — not for her, but for us. She wasn’t educated much. Didn’t have polished words or plans. But she had a spine made of quiet steel and hands that fed, held, and healed. She cooked when her heart refused to eat. She sat with us during exams when she had no idea what the syllabus meant. She never said the right things — but she always stayed. Even now, decades later, I don’t remember what she said in our hardest moments. I remember only that she was there. This poem — I don’t know when I wrote it. Maybe on a day I missed her more than usual. Maybe today. She put her to test... She could pull, but she rather failed... She prayed for you — For that was all she could do… Sh...

 I was just a child, sitting at the corner of the room, my fingers tracing the numbers on my math notebook. The questions seemed endless, but I was determined to solve them all. Then, a sudden knock came at the door — sharp and urgent. It was the office staff, a familiar face but with eyes heavy with worry. “Your father is not keeping well,” he said softly. “You must come, now.” I dropped my pencil and hurried after them, my heart pounding without knowing why. No one spoke much on the way, but I could sense the weight of something terrible. My father had suffered a massive stroke. Just a few months before, he had survived a heart attack — a fragile thread holding him to life. After that, I found myself watching him constantly, anxious for any sign of trouble. But after the stroke, the watching stopped. There was no more anxiety. Only silence. --- Poem by Amita Joshi (in the voice of Arundhati Singh) Was it you who I lost that fateful day Or was it a part of me gone forever... Did y...

 There was a time when we were four shadows stitched to the same thread — me, my two brothers, and my sister. We didn’t need a bigger world than our narrow street and dusty backyard. One stole mangoes, the other covered up. One cried, the others formed a shield. We were inseparable — not in words, but in laughter, bruises, secrets, and homemade games. But life, as it always does, whispered distractions. Careers. Marriages. Cities. Priorities. Slowly, the phone calls became shorter. The festivals turned quieter. And one day, I realized, I was standing alone in the garden we once ruled together. Sometimes, I think — are they just busy or have we truly drifted apart? That night, this poem poured out of me. For them. For us. For the bond that time may stretch but never break. > To play passably — no big was the lawn... Hardly did it matter — be it dusk or the dawn. The skills of our tiny hands amaze me till date, For they weaved a bond of everlasting love — all thanks to my fate. Wh...