takeupthecall

 She proclaimed his praise to feel a little special herself….. Sometimes she praised him to hide her pain in the farthest shelf Sometimes to prove herself worthy of this special love Sometimes trying to insinuate like a dove… Knowing all of her lies and its coverings Flaunting her flight though very well aware of her clipped wings Call her stingy but she has given away her most treasured conscience for him Throwing the light on some wrong person she made herself so dim… Why on earth she has to if you may say She has to make him sound good enough to justify her own stay Yes… don’t believe her she is telling all lies… No man can be this fair..she is just surviving the ties Amita Joshi 

 If you have a daughter, show her the reality. If you have a daughter, preserve her sanity instead of feeding her the dreams of a prince charming. For he may arrive— and still fail her. Teach her to pamper her own wings, to know their strength, to trust their span. Let her fill her own space first  so vast, so complete, too infinite to be measured by anyone else. Let her be enough— long before she is loved. God forbid, if love fades, may she hold on to her dignity and walk away— like a wave that knows when to wade back to the sea.**

She still wears it — but without its essence. It lingers, yet feels absent, defying its own presence.. Her smile was her signature, a part of her nature… No, it hasn’t gone anywhere — it still is; only the meaning in it is now amiss. She doesn’t smile now with any solace in her heart. It is rather a reflex — just another way to somehow sustain this art, the art this art  to create an illusion of normalcy, so that no one can see the chaos within her sea. Amita Joshi 

 I have always known she has never been your favourite  You don't give this much sufferings to your loved ones ...right??   why doesn't she falls in your sight  You do  break the dreams that's for sure Do you break the jinx too as she has no more power left  to endure  With the folded hands I came to remind you.... You owe her some light if you exist then please give her  some cue Each day I see her taking new weapons .... To take on the fight she chose not even once  Fighting with the darkness still not finding any light  She is not done with the previous sufferings but the new addition of the same is in sight... Amita Joshi 

 My pride will never lie in the grades you get. I will keep my head high for you, whether or not success is met. I will never worry about winning whenever you set out to play… Only my prayers, not my ego, will stand in your way. You coming out with flying colours is not what makes my world bright. It is you — and your happiness — that makes everything so right. ❤️❤️** — Amita Joshi

 After months of implorations, years of  feeling cheated She began to feel guilty for the crime she never committed.... 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. Dreams broke ,heart too when she got up from her sleep And the things she heard about herself started to manifest ..... She started becoming exactly what she was told she was and thus getting rest No shred of goodness she possesses now She doesn't even now what happened and how!!!

 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...

 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