Uththan

Trigger Warning / Disclaimer

This story touches on themes of loneliness, single parenting, and emotional struggles. While it isn’t heavy or distressing, it does explore the quiet challenges of handling everything alone.

Reader discretion is advised. If you find such themes triggering, please proceed with caution. 

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Monday Morning – The Classroom

“Miss Parul, look what I made!” Aarav held up a colourful drawing—stick figures of a man, a woman, and a little boy holding hands under a big, bright sun. The strokes were uneven, the colours spilling outside the lines, but the joy in it was unmistakable.

Parul crouched down beside him, smiling. “That’s lovely, Aarav! Who are they?”

“Me, Papa, and Mummy,” he said proudly. “We went to the zoo last Sunday. Mummy bought me ice cream, and Papa took pictures!”

Parul nodded, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the paper. She traced the tiny, clumsy figures with her thumb—something about them felt so full, so complete.

“Did you go anywhere on Sunday, Miss Parul?” Aarav asked, tilting his head.

She hesitated. “Just stayed home. Lots of work to do.”

Aarav frowned. “That’s boring.”

She let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “That’s being a grown-up, Aarav.”

“But grown-ups can have fun too! Papa and Mummy do!” he insisted, as if she had simply forgotten.

Parul opened her mouth to respond but paused. How could she explain to a five-year-old that some Sundays weren’t about fun? That some Sundays were about paying bills, fixing leaking taps, sorting schoolwork, and sitting in silence because there was no one to talk to once the house went quiet?

So instead, she ruffled his hair and smiled. “Maybe next Sunday.”

Aarav beamed, satisfied with that answer, and went back to coloring, humming to himself.

Parul lingered for a moment, staring at the drawing in her hands. A man, a woman, and a child. A perfect little world.

She folded the paper carefully and placed it on his desk before walking away.

—

Tuesday Afternoon – The Teacher’s Lounge

“Parul, you need a break,” Meera declared, dramatically slamming her tiffin shut. “Come with us to Sharma Ji’s Dhaba on Friday!”

Parul smiled, shaking her head. “Too much work. Reports, syllabus planning, parent meetings—”

“Yaar, you always have an excuse.” Priya rolled her eyes. “One night out won’t kill you.”

Parul stirred her chai, watching the steam rise, letting their words settle. “It’s not that simple,” she said lightly.

“Because of Ananya?” Meera asked, her tone softer this time.

Parul sighed. “Who else? She has an exam next week. I need to help her study.”

Meera reached across the table, nudging her arm. “She’s a smart girl. She’ll manage one evening without you.”

Parul glanced up, meeting their expectant faces. The warmth in their eyes, the sheer insistence in their voices—it was tempting. A few hours of laughter, a break from the endless cycle of responsibility.

She hesitated, then forced a smile. “Fine. I’ll try.”

It wasn’t a lie. She would try. But she already knew the answer.

That night, as she sat at the dining table, Ananya beside her, textbooks open and highlighters scattered, her phone buzzed. A message from Meera: “Don’t ditch us, okay?”

Parul’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She glanced at Ananya, head bent in concentration, scribbling notes. She was doing fine on her own. Maybe, just maybe, Parul could take a few hours for herself.

She typed out a reply. “I’ll see.”

It wasn’t a yes. But this time, it wasn’t a no either.

—

Wednesday Evening – At Home

“Mama, I got full marks in math!” Ananya beamed, waving her test paper like a victory flag.

Parul’s exhaustion melted for a moment. “That’s wonderful, beta! I’m so proud of you.”

Ananya hopped onto the sofa beside her. “Can we go to the movies this weekend? A big-screen movie, with popcorn and Pepsi?”

Parul opened her mouth to say yes, but hesitation crept in. The electricity bill was due. Groceries were running low. Ananya’s tuition fees had just cleared, and she still had to figure out the extra expenses for next month.

She forced a smile. “How about a movie night at home? I’ll make popcorn just like in the theatre!”

For a second, just a second, Ananya’s face fell. But then, like a switch, she plastered on a grin. “Okay! But I get to pick the movie. And you can’t say no to my choice, even if it’s animated!”

Parul nodded, ruffling her daughter’s hair. “Deal.”

She wasn’t a bad mother.

She was just trying to survive.

That night, as Ananya excitedly scrolled through movies on the TV, Parul sat at the dining table with her calculator and bills. The numbers refused to add up. Her salary would be credited in a few days, but the cycle never ended.

She pressed her fingers against her temple, inhaling deeply.

“Mama?”

Parul looked up to see Ananya standing there, clutching her test paper. “You work too much. You should get full marks in resting.”

Parul blinked, then laughed softly. “I’ll try, beta.”

And for tonight, that was enough.

—

Thursday – Parent-Teacher Meeting

“Miss Parul, how do you manage everything alone?” Aarav’s mother asked while signing the report card. “Handling a child and a full-time job—it must be exhausting!”

Parul smiled, the kind of smile she had perfected over the years—warm, effortless, reassuring. “You get used to it.”

“You’re amazing, really,” the woman continued, shaking her head in admiration. “I don’t know what I’d do without my husband’s support. Even with both of us, it feels like a lot sometimes.”

Parul nodded, her smile still intact, but inside, something tightened—a small, invisible fist clenching around her heart.

“It’s not easy,” she admitted, choosing honesty over her usual polite deflections.

Aarav’s mother reached across the desk, patting her arm with a gentle squeeze. “You’re strong, Parul. So strong.”

Strong.

She had heard that word so many times, from colleagues, neighbours, even relatives who offered praise but never real help. Strong, as if she had a choice.

Parul nodded again, her throat suddenly dry.

She had to be.

Because the alternative—falling apart—was never an option.

—

Friday Night – The Dhaba

The table was a mess of half-eaten parathas, chutney bowls, and discarded napkins, the air thick with the scent of sizzling tandoori and laughter that came easy to everyone but her.

“I swear, my husband and I fight more over what to eat than anything else,” Priya groaned, rolling her eyes.

“At least you have someone to fight with,” Meera teased, nudging her. “Parul, what about you? When was the last time you had a ‘fight’?”

Parul smirked. “Ananya and I fought over who got the last slice of mango yesterday. Does that count?”

Laughter erupted around the table, warm and familiar. Parul laughed too—because it was expected, because it was easy.

Then the shift happened. Subtle, but sharp.

Phones buzzed, screens lit up. One by one, they started checking in—”Bas, leaving in five minutes”, “Did you eat?”, “Goodnight, love”—texts sent, calls answered, voices softened with the kind of tenderness that belonged to people who had someone waiting for them.

Parul glanced at her phone.

Nothing.

No missed calls. No unread messages. No “Come home safe.” No “What time will you be back?”

She locked the screen and reached for her chai, its warmth doing little to fill the quiet space inside her.

—

Saturday Morning

The house was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the faint clinking of her spoon against the cup.

Outside, the world stretched awake—street vendors setting up carts, children cycling past, neighbours exchanging hurried greetings as they rushed out for morning errands.

Inside, it was just her and the quiet.

Ananya was still curled up in bed, her school bag untouched in the corner. No rush, no chatter, no “Mama, where’s my socks?”—just the slow solitude of a weekend morning.

Parul stared at her reflection in the glass window—mug in hand, hair hastily tied up, yesterday’s kohl faint under her eyes.

She wasn’t alone.

She had a daughter who adored her, colleagues who cared, students who brightened her day with their mischief and questions.

But loneliness wasn’t about being alone.

It was about shouldering the weight of everything, knowing no one was there to share it. It was about making every decision alone, managing every crisis alone, coming home to a house where no one asked, “How was your day?”

It was about knowing that at the end of it all, the only person waiting for her was her own reflection in the window.

She took a slow sip of chai.

Another day. Another step forward.

Because that’s what strong people did.

They kept moving.

—

The End