Keya Parekh
The warm, gleaming afternoon sun spills in through the kitchen window, layering the countertop with gold. You sit at the table peeling garlic with practiced hands, your movements soft, almost rhythmic. The aromatic scent of cumin and turmeric clings to the air; familiar, comforting, a little too heavy. A silence hangs between us, not the awkward kind, yet still filled with something unsaid, unheard.
You hum a Hindi song under your breath that I can’t quite grasp the words of; Lata Mangeshkar, maybe. Your voice feels soft, almost distant, as if you were somewhere else. There’s a faraway look in your eyes, as if the room were a backdrop to a memory you’ve wandered into.
Without looking up, you say, “The rain was different in Dhar.”
I’ve heard this one, but the way you said it this time feels different, as if there was a sense of sorrow, regret in your words. A soft smile spreads across your face, yet the room feels a little heavier, and the scent of turmeric starts to bother me.
I wait. At first you don’t say anything more, just continue peeling, the skins falling like whispers against the steel bowl. But I know that look of yours; you’re not really here with me anymore. You’re seventeen again, aren’t you? On that old rooftop in Dhar.
When the monsoon rolled in suddenly that day, turning the sky charcoal and wild. When the rain came down in sheets, relentless and warm. When you slipped off your sandals and ran upstairs before anyone could stop you.
I see you now, standing barefoot on the wet concrete, your dupatta fluttering behind you like something trying to escape. Music crackling from the neighbours’ radio, your arms wide open, soaking up every bit of the rain.
You told me it was the last time you ever felt completely free.
The scent of turmeric seems sharper now, curling at the back of my throat.
Maa, that truth, it sits in my throat like a stone. Because I know what came next. The proposals. The long list of expectations disguised as love. A wedding sari too heavy for your young shoulders.
I sometimes wonder if you ever resent it. Or worse, if you simply forgot who you were before us.
That rooftop girl. That dreamer. That version of you who might’ve chosen differently, if anyone had ever told her that choosing herself was an option. Maybe that’s where your story should’ve changed. Maybe if the girl on the roof had stayed a little longer, she would’ve remembered what it felt like to belong only to herself. Maybe she would’ve packed her bags for university instead of packing her hope away.
Oh Maa, I think about a future for you, where you hadn’t met Papa, where you didn’t have us. Did the rooftop girl really want this? Those young eyes yearning for freedom, choice, a different life.
I look at you now, your back slightly hunched, your brow faintly furrowed, the sun painting your greying hair with gold, and I wonder what it would have cost to become that version of you.
You say we were all you wanted; that doesn’t sit right with me because I know that girl on the roof would’ve said no to them. No to the rishtas, and expectations that now burden your shoulders, she would’ve soaked in every bit of lasting freedom she had.
The scent of turmeric no longer feels comforting anymore.
But the thing is, I don’t you think you ever said yes.
Not really. You were told that this was what good girls did. Good girls didn’t chase dreams; they folded them neatly and tucked them away. They smiled during rishta meetings and said nothing when they were told, “You’ll learn to love him.” Good girls wore gold around their necks like it was a blessing even when it felt like a leash.
Maybe you told yourself it was just a different kind of freedom. That this too would become comfort. That you could always still find joy in the small things, like teaching your daughter how to braid her hair or dance to old Hindi songs in the kitchen when no one’s watching.
And maybe that’s true. Maybe there’s a beauty in the life you built; I just can’t quite see it through those cracks that can’t be ignored. The way you become teary-eyed when I talk about moving out. The way you watch me put on kajal, as if you were remembering a version of yourself who once did the same, before someone told her not to.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living both our lives.
Yours unlived. Mine, Unfolding.
And the guilt of that settles in my chest like the scent of turmeric that has become unbearable.
You say you chose this life, that you have no regrets. But I wonder if that’s something you say for me. To stop me from carrying the ache you were never allowed to voice.
But Maa, it’s too late for that. I carry it anyway.
Because I know, I know that sacrifice doesn’t always look like struggle. Sometimes it looks like silence.
Maa, I can’t rewrite your story. I can’t take you back to that rooftop, or carry the weight that followed you down the stairs.
But I can remember her: the girl you were before the world asked you to forget. I can carry her with me in every choice I make that you couldn’t. In every dream I dare to speak aloud. Maybe that’s how I honour you. Not by becoming the perfect daughter, but by becoming the free woman you once imagined on that rain-soaked roof. She didn’t disappear. She lives on, in me.
The garlic is gone; the silence and spice still linger.
You hum softly, and the rooftop girl hums with you.
Keya Parekh is a writer, youth advocate, and community leader. Her work focuses on youth empowerment, mental health, civic engagement, and social issues. She is passionate about youth empowerment, community engagement, and mental health advocacy. Alongside her writing, she works with a range of youth-led organisations and initiatives, using her voice to amplify youth voices and strengthen opportunities for young people.