Maa often says to me that the biggest and tastiest of ladoos were distributed when I got birth. These words of her echo in my mind the loudest when the crowd inside my head gets louder each passing second and my heart deafens gradually doubting my existence in this big world. Somedays I wonder from where she buys so much faith in me when all I have sold her is disappointment, from where she picks hope in me when all I have stored inside is emptiness. Those are the days when I look at her blankly, yet full of realisations. I fear that one day I have to behave like her, to work like her, to be like her for keeping her head high as a perfect mother of an imperfect daughter. I fear for the day when I’ll burn a roti, when I’ll make the curry salty and my mistake will be accepted not with a pardon, but with taunts and tantrums. I fear for the day when I won’t be allowed to feel tired after returning from work because the duty of a woman is meant to continue until the clock stops ticking. I fear for the day when my fingers can’t paint for the entire day, my eyes can’t read books for the entire night because people say the colour of the responsibilities looks the brightest, the page of a woman’s life begins before dawn. I dread that one-day society will compel me to act overly matured concealing the child in me and the surrounding will demand from me to recreate the little me. I dread that one-day argument & adventure will become foreign for me and the realm of quiet agreement & harmonious adjustment will welcome me. Then I realise how her face tells the silent tale of courage, devotion, sacrifice and tenacity that none has the ability to listen. I don’t know how much strength she possesses to live a life that I fear to even foresee. But somedays I feel better, I love myself a little more realising that I was brought up by a strong woman who taught me a lot, who trusts me a lot.