I Cried the Day My Mother Learned to Stay Silent

I. That Morning

I woke up a little late that morning.
The house felt... wrong.
There was no clinking of pots in the kitchen. No smell of Parathas, no radio playing old songs.
Just silence. The kind that doesn’t hum it chokes.

She was sitting by the window, wrapped in her old green shawl the one she’d worn for years, even though the edges were frayed. She loved it. Or maybe, like most things in her life, she had simply grown used to it.

Her cup of tea sat cold in her hands. Still full. Still untouched. Still... waiting.

“Maa?” I called softly. “Are you okay?”

She turned, slowly. Smiled.

But it wasn’t the smile that raised me.
Not the smile that warmed burnt toast or forgave my teenage anger.
This one… this one was empty. Like she wasn’t even there.

She nodded once. No words. Just silence.

That’s when I knew:
My mother had learned to stay silent.


II. She Wasn’t Always This Way

She used to be a storm in this house.

Loud, fiery, full of life.
She used to hum while making sabzi. Complain about rising vegetable prices like it was a personal insult. Talk to the TV. Fight with Baba over how much salt to put in the daal. She was everywhere a noise you didn’t realize was keeping the walls from falling.

I remember once, I came home crying after failing a math test. She didn’t scold me. She yelled at the syllabus.

“Who needs algebra to survive in this world, haan? No one asks your father to find ‘x’ at work!”

I laughed through my tears.
She handed me roti and love like it was medicine.

Now?

I came home last week after a rough day.
Threw my bag. Slammed the door. She looked up. And said nothing.
She just quietly brought me water and turned away.

No “What happened?”
No “Who said what?”
No lecture.
No comfort.
Just silence.


III. The Weight in Her Eyes

I began noticing other things.

She didn't argue with Baba anymore not even when he deserved it.
She didn’t complain when her back hurt, when her fingers cramped while kneading dough, or when her favourite saree tore.
She just... accepted things. As if her feelings had stopped mattering. As if her voice had been packed away with her old bangles and dreams.

Once I asked her, “Why don’t you say anything anymore?”

She just smiled. That same hollow smile.

“Itna bola na beta zindagi mein… ab thak gayi hoon.”

(I’ve spoken so much in life… now I’m tired.)

But it wasn’t tiredness in her voice.
It was something heavier.
Resignation.



IV. The Lost Version of Her

It was a Thursday night I remember because Baba had gone to sleep early and the house was unusually calm.

She was folding laundry. I sat beside her, aimless. And out of nowhere, she said:

“You know... I used to dream.”

I looked at her, surprised.
She rarely spoke about herself.

“Before I became a wife. Before I became someone’s mother. I wanted to be a teacher. Or maybe write books.”
She chuckled, almost bitterly. “But I barely finished college. Then your grandfather fixed my rishta. And I said yes, because what else was I going to say?”

I was stunned. My mother had never said any of this before.

“I’m not sad,” she said after a pause. “Just... quiet. Because after a while, when no one listens, you stop trying to be heard.”

I wanted to cry.
I wanted to hold her.
But I just sat there useless. Like always.


V. The Breaking Point

A few nights later, I heard her crying. Softly. In the kitchen.
She thought everyone was asleep.

She wasn’t sobbing. It wasn’t loud or dramatic.

It was a silent kind of crying the kind where your body trembles but no sound comes out. The kind where even your pain is polite, so it doesn’t disturb anyone.

I didn’t go in.
I froze.
I stood outside the door, ashamed.

Because all my life, I thought of her as strong. Unshakable.
I never realized she was human.
And breaking.



VI. I Cried That Night Too

Not for her silence.
But for mine.

For every time she asked me if I was okay and I rolled my eyes.
For every time she tried to share something and I brushed it off.
For every meal she made without ever sitting down to eat with us.
For every night she waited for my messages to say I’d be late.

I cried for the times I thought she was being dramatic.
When really she was being denied.

She didn’t need flowers on Mother’s Day.
She needed someone to ask her how she was, and mean it.
She needed someone to listen not fix her, not advise her just… listen.



Ending

Now, when I see her lost in thought, I don’t ask, “Maa, kya soch rahi ho?”
I sit beside her.
Quietly.
Like she once did for me.

Because silence taught me what her words couldn’t:
That strength isn't always loud.
And love... sometimes forgets to speak for itself.

But I won’t forget again.

I cried the day my mother learned to stay silent.
And I’ll keep listening until she finds her voice again.