Her Henna Bled White

 A tale of love, loss, and the color no one chooses—white. The gift of a war to her, ironically, is the Color of Peace! 

 When I went to sleep, my hands were natural. The next morning, I woke up to both hands wrapped, each in an old cloth piece.

“Mumma! My hands!” I shouted.

My mother came smiling and removed those cloth pieces, saying, “Go and wash your hands and see the magic.”

I ran and scrubbed my hands, removing that dried muck from my hands, making faces, and shouting Yuk! Yuk! 

Voila! “This is henna! When did you apply it to my hands?” I had no idea something so ordinary could turn into something so beautiful.
That morning, I didn’t just wash my hands, I washed away sleep and stepped into celebration. Compliments filled the air like monsoon petrichor, soaking into me.
That day, I felt special. Wanted. Adorned. Isn’t that what love is? A surprise in the night that blooms in the morning. I was delighted and ran to her and every person in the house to show my hand, expecting compliments. 

I admired myself in the mirror with my palms facing the mirror in front of my face. 

It was drizzling since morning, but I wanted to go outside, play with my friends, and take swings. My friend had a jute rope swing in her veranda.

The whole day, I ran across the house and the neighborhood, showing my hands to everyone and getting praises, compliments, admiration, and smiles back.

This was the festival of ‘Teej’ and I loved it for the mehndi patterns, colorful bangles, high swings, Ghevar (a sweet delicacy in north India), new clothes, and the songs my mother used to sing on this occasion.

This festival is all about visiting the mayka by married women.

Married women are used to singing songs to call their brothers to take them along, as they miss their mother and friends. And on reaching the mayka, they would sing songs to call their beloved. As now, they miss them.

What an irony! Haha…

How peculiar that women keep waiting—first for their brothers, then for their beloved.
Their hearts stretch like swings tied to trees, swaying between home and the world outside.
Those songs, half lament, half laughter, were the unsaid verses of a woman's longing.
Even at my young age, I sensed a sadness stitched between those joyful notes.
But I never imagined I’d one day understand that sadness with such clarity. 

My mother was used to making a mutthi (fist) design with henna. She would spread a blob of henna on the fingers and then ask me to clasp my fingers in a fist, and one more blob on the remaining part of the palm outside the fist. One needed to keep the fist closed until the henna dried up to make a beautiful pattern. After the henna dried, it would leave a deep color on the palm, leaving the lines either unpigmented or very light-colored. 

I didn’t realize then how much power lay in the simplicity of that fist. Closed hand, holding tight, capturing warmth and intimacy. Our fists were full of shared traditions, echoing the rhythms of sisterhood and belonging. The henna dried and washed, but its fragrance lingered long after, the way love does, quietly persistent.

The tighter you make the fist, the clearer and darker the pattern becomes. Similar to the love of a close-knit family. Love is in sharing, and beauty is in caring. Who got what or who did what doesn’t matter? The efforts were fewer, still, the outcome was so beautiful. Almost all women had the same type of patterns, and the comparison was only the darkness of the color. Who got the darkest hands? We giggled and teased, as if darkness on palms equated to the depth of love.

 As the henna patterns became intricate, they lost their feelings, or I think so…

I didn’t know that one day, I'd crave even a pale imprint, just to feel remembered. That shared laughter now returns to me, echoing in empty rooms, asking: Where did all that color go?

 I’m Disha. I no longer apply henna to my hands. This is for unmarried girls or married suhagan (married women whose husbands are alive).

There was a time I counted days to Teej. Now, I count silences between phone calls. I no longer run around showing my hands. I hold them still, close to my chest, as if to protect whatever memory remains. The songs stopped. So did the swing. But my fists still tighten in longing, not play. Now, I go to sleep wishing someone would apply henna on my hands. But no one does.

My beloved has gifted me a permanent color when he made the supreme sacrifice for the motherland and came back wrapped in the tricolor. I touched that flag like I used to touch his cheek, gently, reverently. His last embrace came not with arms, but with silence and ceremony. People said, "Be proud." I am. But pride doesn't warm a cold pillow or answer a child's questions. And yet, I wear that pride every day like white bangles; silent, strong, unbreakable.

When all the colors of light become one, they appear white. White is my color now. And I’m proud of it. The color of peace. When all colors unite, they make white. For me, now white is the color of unity. People say white is plain, the absence of color. But they don’t understand. White holds all shades—joy, pain, love, loss—folded into quiet surrender. It is not the color of emptiness. It is the color of everything.

______________________________________________

Many martyr at the border, leaving behind their families and dear ones to tackle life. We have seen many bravely fighting the situation, but not all are as strong or have a support system with them. They struggle to come to terms with their loss. Wars are about holding power and showing off to the world for some, while others lose their world to wars. War doesn’t end when guns fall silent. For some of us, it begins there—with a folded flag, an empty side of the bed, and hands that once wore henna now clasped in silent prayers.

How I Wish I Had a Sister!

 

Growing up in the seventies and eighties, our wardrobes had a simple logic—two types of clothes: one for home, and the other, bahar pahenne wale kapde—the designated outfits for going out. These weren’t ‘party wear’ in today’s sense of glitter and brands. A ‘party’ back then could be anything—your cousin’s wedding, a neighbor’s birthday, or a family function. And wearing those special clothes was a treat in itself.

Getting new clothes was a carefully timed event. If there was a wedding in the extended family—say, a maasi, mama, or chachu getting married—you might just get lucky. But even then, it depended on your pecking order among your same-gender siblings. If you were the eldest, good for you. If not, you probably ended up with someone else’s hand-me-downs.

And we, believe it or not, didn’t really mind it. Not until someone (read: a sibling seeking revenge for some petty fight) decided to remind you loudly at a gathering that your ‘new’ dress was, in fact, their old one. Sometimes, this cruel reminder would be delivered with a smirk, a pointed finger, or worse, in front of friends. It stung, but you couldn’t really complain. That was just how it was.

As the only girl among four siblings, I initially thought I had hit the jackpot. While my youngest brother wore hand-me-downs from the older two, I had my own set of clothes—no sharing, no fighting. I used to secretly thank God for not giving me a sister. Imagine sharing clothes with another girl, I thought. Or worse, handing over my favorites once I’d outgrown them.

But that gratitude didn’t last long.

Being the only female child came with its own strange setbacks. Clothes, for instance, were considered a wasteful investment when there was no one to inherit them later. My mother would say with a practical air, “If only you had a younger sister, we wouldn’t mind buying more. But these go to waste once you outgrow them. So, let’s buy just one now, we’ll get another next time.”

And that “next time” was always just… next time.

I still remember sulking quietly after one such verdict. That day, the desire for a sister was very real.

But the feeling hit its peak during birthday parties. Those get-togethers were beautifully modest—homemade kheer, halwa, or gulab jamun; potato chips from a local bakery; orange squash or Rooh Afza; and lots of giggling over passing-the-parcel. The excitement started days before and built up like a festival.

So, when I got invited to a friend’s birthday, I was thrilled. Until the permission hurdle showed up.

My mother had one condition: “Take your youngest brother along.”

It was her default clause. If I wanted to go to any gathering, he had to accompany me as a mini bodyguard. He was small, clumsy, and sometimes afraid of the very stray dogs I’d be shielding him from. But my mother thought he was my security detail. And without agreeing to this arrangement, there was no party.

I didn’t want to take him. None of my friends ever dragged their brothers along. If only he were a she, I thought. Maybe I wouldn’t mind as much. Perhaps we could have matched dresses or shared secrets. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was babysitting.

But that wasn’t the case.

So, I gave in. I said yes, because a party with conditions was better than no party at all.

And that evening, as I adjusted the one carefully chosen dress I had for such occasions and looked at my brother trying to adapt his crooked belt, I sighed and thought, God, how I wish I had a sister.

Looking back now, I smile at the absurd logic of those days, the fairness of frugality, the unspoken sibling rivalries, and the strange companionship I shared with my tagalong brother.

I never did get that sister I longed for, but over time, I gained something else: stories worth telling. Stories stitched with fabric, old and new, borrowed and passed down—not just of clothes, but of a childhood lived richly, even in its simplicity.

And today, when I see siblings bickering or sharing outfits on Instagram, I still think wistfully, How I wish I had a sister! But then again, I had brothers, and that, in its own chaotic way, was a different adventure altogether.

Being a Woman and Living with Ambivalence

 

Recently, the CBSE board exam results were declared. Just like in previous years, girls outshined boys once again. The headlines praised their performance, families rejoiced, and hopes soared. Many of these bright young women will pursue professional courses, while others will choose to follow their passions in diverse fields. A fair number will land respectable jobs, gain financial independence, and for a while, it may seem like equality is finally within reach.

And yet, when we look at the topmost positions in most professions—corporate, academic, political, or scientific—how many are occupied by women?

Very few.

This irony bothers me deeply. It’s not because women lack talent, drive, or intelligence. The problem lies elsewhere—hidden in the undercurrents of societal expectations, familial pressures, and the fine print of being a woman.

A large number of women begin their careers with promise, but many drop out of the workforce around the time of marriage. Some leave willingly, looking forward to a new chapter. But others are gradually, and sometimes subtly, pushed into quitting. The reasons vary. Some are expected to relocate for their spouse’s job. Some are told that the family’s peace depends on their presence at home. Some are gently reminded that they can’t possibly handle both work and home without falling short somewhere. And eventually, many do resign. Not because they are weak, but because they are made to believe inadequate for trying to do it all.

Those who make it past this stage face another fork in the road, when they choose to start a family. Motherhood is beautiful, no doubt. But it comes with its own heavy toll on a woman’s career. Maternity breaks often result in missed promotions, lost opportunities, and in some cases, complete disconnection from the professional world.

And even when women return to work, they do so with a constant undercurrent of guilt. Am I spending enough time with my child? Am I being too ambitious? Am I being judged? Spending enough time and being ambitious is debatable but being judges! Sure!

At times, the judgment is not even external. It creeps in quietly, from within.

I speak not just from observation, but from personal experience. I’ve lived this ambivalence. My work has always meant more to me than just financial security. It gave me purpose, identity, and the satisfaction of contributing to society beyond the walls of my home. Yet, when the time came for someone in the family to take a step back, I did. No one asked me to quit. There was no dramatic confrontation. But as one of our team had to do it, I volunteered. It is just that my better half did not offer. As, if that wasn't a choice at all. It was just silently understood Or so I told myself.

Yes, that was my choice. I did it willingly. But I ask, did I truly have a choice?

There was no extended support system—no mother, no mother-in-law who could step in long-term. I couldn’t sabotage another woman’s freedom to salvage my own. And so, I stepped back. I paused a promising career. I chose family.

Today, when I reflect on that decision, I do so without resentment but with realism. I am among the relatively privileged ones. I have a voice in my household. I’m loved, respected, and included in decisions. My partner tries to help—most of the time. He adjusts his schedule occasionally, contributes to household chores, and doesn’t flinch from changing diapers. But is the primary responsibility of the home ever his? Not quite. The emotional and mental load still lies largely with me.

And parenting? That’s an entirely different ballgame. While men may participate physically, the emotional involvement, the patience to teach, play, and gently guide children; that seems to be a rare trait among them. Most women are just expected to have it.

Now, as my children grow, I find myself in yet another phase. A phase where I must prepare them to take flight, to become independent and responsible citizens. And here again, my inner conflict rears its head.

Have I, in my well-intentioned sacrifices, unconsciously set a pattern for them?

I try to raise my son and daughter equally. I talk about respect, independence, and shared responsibilities. But haven’t I also shown them that when the time comes, it’s the woman who compromises? The one who quietly folds away her dreams in the name of duty?

Values, after all, are not merely taught. They are caught. And that frightens me.

There are fleeting moments when a sense of loss catches me off guard. A strange emptiness, a pang I cannot always name. Those are the times I momentarily dislike being a woman—not because I don’t cherish who I am, but because I hate the limitations imposed on me by this world.

And yet, if you ask me, would I want to be a man in my next life?

A shiver runs down my spine.

No, I would still choose to be a woman.

I love being one. I am kind, compassionate, empathetic, and resilient. I have the ability to nurture, to listen, to communicate with care. I’m capable of immense strength and silent courage. I can multitask with grace. I can lead, support, and uplift—all at once.

Men, too, carry burdens. They are often not allowed to express their vulnerability. They are expected to be providers, stoic, and emotionally restrained. That is their cage. And I haven’t lived in it to fully understand its pain.

This isn’t a war of the sexes.

It’s a plea for balance.

Society won’t change overnight. But change begins with acknowledgement. And empathy. More men are stepping up. More women are pushing boundaries. Small, everyday efforts are shaping a better tomorrow. But we still have a long road ahead before gender equality becomes a lived reality, not just a buzzword.

As for me, I continue to walk this tightrope between contentment and compromise. I try to find joy in what I do and meaning in what I gave up. I strive to leave a different legacy for my children. One where choice isn’t dictated by gender but guided by passion, purpose, and mutual respect.

Because in the end, what we model matters more than what we preach.

An Uninvited Guest and Gift of Orphanhood

 

 

Did all the dishes. Checked…

Cleaned the kitchen platform. Checked…

Chopped the vegetables. Checked…

I checked everything before calling my mistress. Today she approved my work with a slight nod of her head. Still, what I was striving for, a smile and a softness in her eyes were missing.

 I landed at her door a few weeks back. One of my distant relatives arranged this job for me.

“Now onwards this is your home. You should work here like you are working for your own home. Madam is just like your Aai. Don’t ever give her any reasons to complain.” He advised me before taking leave.

Madam hired me as a maid and had some expectations from me. I was trying my best but this was all very new to me. For a ten years old girl, who never did any house chores and who was only asked to study and play.

Once, I was also the apple of my Aai, Baba’s eye. Baba used to call me ‘princess’. We were not rich but Aai, Baba took good care of me. Aai wanted me to study well and had dreamed of a government job for me.

I still remember that day, when my result was declared. I stood first in the class. Baba brought my favorite butterscotch ice cream.

The next day, the lockdown was declared due to some uninvited guests in the world. This dreadful virus created devastation in so many lives including mine. I never wanted this virus to enter the world leave alone my home. I and Aai got confined to the house but baba needed to work.

Schools, offices, and shops all got closed. Baba too stayed at home for few days. But he needed money to feed three mouths. So, he had to move out of the house for work.

Both Aai and I were worried for Baba.

Few months passed and things were returning to normal or we thought so when baba caught this deadly virus. He was not keeping well for few days and Aai was taking care of him.

They didn’t allow me to come near them. Aai too contracted the virus after a few days. They needed medical care but none was available. No one came to help us. Finally, when they got the medical care, it was too late. Both left this world leaving behind me, all alone.

I was hungry and my neighbours fed me. One of them managed to contact some of my relatives and one of them took me along with them, reluctantly. After a few weeks, I reached here.

This family is nice. But I miss my Aai, Baba. More so, when they snuggle and caress their kids. It seems like ages when someone cuddled me. I hugged myself and cried through the night, till sleep took over me.

This uninvited and unwanted virus has taken everything from me and many more children like me.

Sooner or later this virus has to leave this place but the marks left by this virus will take their own sweet time before they get erased.

P.S. One of the secondary impacts of COVID-19 is children orphaned or bereft of their caregiver. These children often face adverse consequences, including poverty, abuse, and institutionalization.

 Globally, more than a million children experienced the death of their caregivers. Orphanhood, defined by UNICEF as the death of one or both parents and the death of caregivers can have severe consequences. As deaths occur within weeks, children and family members are not prepared for the trauma they experience. This can impact children in the form of developmental delays, abuse, mental health problems, sexual violence, and poverty. There is the risk of adolescent pregnancy, the risk of suicide, and an increase in cases of chronic illness and HIV.

As per the National Commission for Protection of Child Rights (NCPCR), more than 30000 children in India have lost a parent or were abandoned due to COVID-19.

Maharashtra has been the worst affected.

We controlled COVID-19 eventually but the childhoods of the children who are orphaned due to this virus are never going to come back.

Let Me Live This Moment

 

I am Rahul. I’m five years old. I know because there were five candles on my birthday cake. My mom told me that my birthday cake would have six candles next year. I have a younger brother too. Mehul. His birthday cake had just one candle. He is the best gift my parents gave me.

My parents love me. But people outside my family give me anxiety. They give me strange glances and inquire about my parents. They talk about some milestones that I haven’t yet achieved. They say my speech is delayed. I have trouble communicating my feelings. I get tongue-tied when I try to speak. Words fail me, but I understand everything. Mehul too doesn’t talk much. But people label him normal. He can't even walk straight. He often trips while walking. I try to support him or help him when he stumbles.

We play together and understand each other. We don't need words to understand each other’s feelings. But when Mehul cries, I too get restless. That is when I want Mom at my side, not Mehul’s.

Doctors had diagnosed me with Asperger’s syndrome. That means I fall on the Autism Spectrum. It was two years ago. It took some time before my parents could accept it. The last two years were tough for us. We were super busy with therapies and frequent visits to the doctor. My dad accompanied me each time. At first, my mom was expectant, and then Mehul came.

My family has come to terms with reality. We live a normal life, but social gatherings can become difficult for us. I feel lost and suffocated, but once I find a quiet corner, my imagination knows no bounds.

I have started going to kindergarten as well. I was scared in the beginning, but now I feel fine. Teachers are sensitive towards me, and so are most of the kids. A few kids get confused about my behaviour. I think they are ignorant souls. I try to ignore them till they start to shout at the top of their lungs. Did I tell you I can’t withstand noise? I become restless, and then I only need my mom.

Mom says I’m a keen observer. They stress this fact. But I find it normal. How can you not appreciate God’s wonderful creations? I like to observe birds, ants, sand, rain, and trees.

The other day I was playing on my balcony. It was airy. The air felt so nice. as if it whispered something in my ears. I tried to listen but it was gone. I wanted to, but I could not ask my mom. I wonder what the breeze says? I’ll try to listen carefully next time.

We have a few planters on our balcony. I love to watch them. Birds come and sit on our parapet. I want to have a close look, but each time I try to approach, they fly away.

I can’t eat on my own. I spill and scatter my food a lot. I’m still learning. But I’m fine as long as my family is with me.

That day, my mom was helping me with my food and Mehul was playing around us when I caught sight of this tiny ant. It was stealing my food from the floor. I tried to block its way, but it changed its route and kept on moving. The crumbs of bread it was carrying were way bigger than its whole body. When Mehul was about to crush it under his foot, I saved her under the cup of my palm. His foot did hurt me a little, but I was happy I could save her.

People think I’m weird, but I think they are. Why can’t they follow me? I don't understand. Why do I need to fit in with their standards? Can’t they try to fit into mine?

I’m happy the way I am. I have my own pace. I’m in no hurry. Only if, you could wait a little while and let me enjoy my moments just like my parents allow me to.

The Reflection

 As a kid, I always loved looking in the mirror and felt good about what I saw. I always found an attractive soul reflecting from that mirror who looked at me admiringly. I did the same in return, admired the image inside that mirror. I simply didn’t see any flaws. 

Two vibrant eyes with all the kindness, an innocent face, and a beautiful smile. I saw what I wanted to see and what was there in my heart. Same I found in others. I saw beauty, inside and outside, because that was the only thing I knew. The world was a beautiful place and all the inmates were beautiful, till the world started exhibiting to me some faults in myself and also in others! Maybe their mirrors were different from what I had. After all, mine was an old, second-hand piece.

That day, I accompanied my mother to her workplace. I wanted to play with the toys of the acquaintances in the house but I wasn’t allowed. They said I was not clean enough and they made me sit outside on the floor. I tried to peep in. It was a beautiful, palatial house. A large mirror was mounted in the living area. I looked at my reflection and didn’t find myself beautiful. “What happened to the girl who accompanied Amma in the morning?” I asked myself.

I picked up a stick from the ground and imagined it was a doll. I often used to play with these kinds of imaginary dolls. They always served the purpose perfectly fine and always made a beautiful toy for me. But today I imagined it was me. It wanted to play with the real me. I scolded it, “You aren’t as clean.” Its surface was so rough and muddy. That day I could only see ugliness in it. The dry rough and grimy. I wanted to but I couldn’t play with it. Then I looked at my hands and found the skin wasn’t as soft as it used to be.

I wanted to go back to my house and have a look in that magic mirror. Surely that was a magic mirror as I always found myself beautiful and clean in it. 

Why was Amma taking so long to finish her work? I didn't like it there. I wanted to go back and clean myself first and then have a look at my beautiful reflection. I needed to do that to acquire my self-esteem back. 

Amma came back after some time which appeared to me like eons. On reaching home, first I cleaned myself. Amma asked, why was I scrubbing myself so much. I didn’t reply. Just kept on scrubbing.

The mirror wasn't the same, the reflection wasn't the same. I was no longer as beautiful as I used to be. My imaginary toys too lost all the charm and sheen.

What happened? The mirror wasn’t good enough or the eyes staring in it had changed? I was made to notice the unattractive me and the world. I was looking through a curtain of dubiety.

It took a long time to realize that the dirty mirror shows a dirty image. When I was rubbing my eyes to have a clear reflection all I needed to do was free my mirror from that curtain and my reflection would have been as clear and beautiful as it used to be.