She glided through the kitchen like a quiet habit. As she stirred the sambar, the steam sucked the color out of her skin, leaving her as transparent as the gray dawn. She was a map of small needs, a flamingo that had given all her pink to the nest.
When the house was still, late at night, she sat under the gentle light of her lamp. She opened her well-worn notebook and wrote:
The night gathers all I cannot say aloud,
In my verses, I reach for the pink that left with him.
She paused, remembering Vishu, who first believed her words mattered.
“Amma, not asleep?” Venky murmured from the hallway.
“Just finishing something, kanna,” she said softly.
He nodded, too sleepy to notice the small fire still alive in her eyes, and slipped back into his room.
***
Morning always came with a list. By the time the sun’s rays stretched across the railing of the balcony, she had already folded the laundry and prepared the lunch boxes.
“Amma, where’s my blue tie?” Venky asked.
“Second drawer,” she answered, her voice an automatic response.
Rashmi entered the kitchen, checking her watch as she reached for the lunch bag that had been left on the counter. She stopped, her eyes falling on the pen clutched in her mother-in-law’s hand.
On the back of the grocery list, amidst the mustard seeds and the detergent powder, two lines had been scribbled in an elegant script.
“You always write, Aththai,” Rashmi said with a small, hurried laugh as she tucked the lunch bag into her tote. “Don’t the chores keep you busy enough?”
She simply smiled and folded the paper into her pocket, the ink still wet against her thumb.
***
A year turned like a slow, heavy page. It was the week before Women’s Day when Rashmi walked in with a bouquet of bright yellow daisies.
“Aththai, look!” she said cheerfully, placing them in a vase. “The office gave us travel passes. Two days in Goa to ‘pause’ life. Venky and I were just saying, with our promotions coming up, this might be our last chance to really relax.”
Venky nodded, sipping his tea. “The next few years are going to be a sprint. Honestly, Amma, we were talking about when we have a baby next year. It’s such a relief knowing you’ll be here to handle the house and the little one. You’re the steady shadow that keeps everything running while we’re out chasing the world.
The word shadow felt heavy, as if they were already placing her in some dark corner of their child’s life.
She looked up from the saree she was folding. In the quiet biology of her own heart, she felt the truth stirring…
A flamingo pales when the tide of life runs long and deep,
yet beneath the gray, a quiet blush waits to return.
“A child should grow up seeing a mother’s dreams,” she said quietly, her voice steady. “Not just her sacrifices.”
Venky and Rashmi exchanged a confused look.
“But Amma,” Venky said, “we only meant that you’re the one we can always count on. Isn’t that a beautiful thing to give a child?”
She placed the saree down, leaving it unfinished on the pile.
“It is beautiful,” she said gently. “But if a child only sees me sacrifice, they will think that is all a woman is for. I want them to see me bloom, too.”
The room fell into a brief silence. The steam from the tea rose between them like a fading mist, but for once, the conversation didn’t just drift back to office deadlines.
***
On the morning of Women’s Day, the kitchen was silent.
No coffee brewed, no vessels clattered.
A courier knocked. Rashmi brought the package in.
“Aththai, this is in your name,” she said, curious.
Venky looked up from the table, adjusting his glasses. “Did you order something, Amma?”
“A gift,” she said, her voice steady and clear. “Just open it.”
Venky tore the paper. He stopped. Beneath the brown wrap, a name stared back in bold, black letters – a name he hadn’t heard spoken aloud in years: Yamini Vishwanathan.
“Amma?” he whispered, his expression a tangled mix of shock and dawning realization.
Seeing his silence, Rashmi pulled the rest, a vibrant hard-bound cover with flamingos lifting into flight against a rising sun. The title stood out in elegant script: The Return of Pink.
“Aththai, you wrote this?” Rashmi whispered, “Between the cooking? Between us?”
“In the spaces you didn’t see,” she replied, finally using her own voice.
Venky flipped to the first page, his fingers lingering on the paper before he passed it to Rashmi. Her voice was shaky as she read the dedication aloud: “For the woman who finally spoke back to the silence.”
“The world gave you a pass to pause,” Yamini said, her hand resting on the book. “I didn’t want to pause anymore. I wanted to begin.”
The tide has turned, the gray has thinned,
and somewhere within, the pink begins.
Vishu… I wrote.
Outside, the sun was rising. And for the first time in years, the world wasn’t the only thing returning to pink.
******
Glossary
Aththai – Mother-in-law
Kanna – An affectionate way of addressing a son or loved one.
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I stumbled into writing quite accidentally, but it turned out to be one of the most fulfilling journeys of my life. I’ve discovered the joy of turning my cloistered thoughts into captivating words, each one carrying raw emotions that connect deeply. Currently, I’m a freelancer and mom blogger, juggling creativity with life’s beautiful chaos. As a Digital Strategist & Platform Manager for a writing platform, I’m passionate about shaping strategies and fostering growth within a vibrant community of storytellers. My previous role as a Business Development Manager at a dance and fitness studio honed my skills in management and creativity. Now, on a sabbatical, I’m exploring new paths to carve out my unique niche, embracing every opportunity to learn and grow.
