Mother’s voice, soft but firm, echoes across continents: “Beta, five monsoons have passed since you flew to America. Isn’t it time the winds carried you home again?”
The daughter, her voice tinted with longing and logic, replies: “Ma, the skies here are generous. My salary sings a tune I never heard back home, And the rhythm of life—its freedom, its pace— It fits me like a second skin. To return would mean shrinking into a salary that stifles, and a lifestyle that no longer feels like mine.”
But the mother, rooted in tradition, counters with concern: “You’re 32 now, my child. The clock ticks louder with each passing year. Wait too long, and the good ones will be gone.”
The daughter, calm yet resolute, dreams aloud: “I wish to marry someone who carries our soil in their soul, whether from India, Pakistan, or Bangladesh— But one who walks these American streets beside me. Why must I cross oceans just to tie the knot?”
The mother’s voice tightens, her world narrowing to her roots: “How will we find such a match from here? And how can we accept someone not from Uttar Pradesh— Not steeped in our language, our food, our ways? No one in our family has ever stepped outside that circle.”
The daughter, caught between love and liberty, pleads: “Give me time, Ma. I’m not ready to leave this land that feels like home. Let me think, let me breathe.”
But the mother, her patience fraying, declares: “Time is a luxury we no longer have. You must return, marry, and then— Then you may chase whatever dreams you wish. But first, fulfill the one we’ve dreamt for you.”
For months now, the phone calls between Ananya and her parents have echoed with tension, like distant thunder rumbling across oceans. Her father, once her anchor, now drifts in silence— A silence born not of indifference, but of frustration, Of dreams deferred and expectations unmet.
Ananya stands at the crossroads of two worlds: One, the vibrant pulse of the United States, where her spirit feels unshackled, her ambitions alive. The other, a homeland that calls her back Not with promises, but with obligations— Marriage, tradition, and the weight of ancestral hopes.
Her heart, though resolute, is tangled. Thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in a storm— Confusion, guilt, longing, and rebellion, All vying for space in her sleepless nights.
Loneliness creeps in like fog beneath her door. To quiet the noise within, she reaches for the bottle— A temporary balm that deepens the ache. Her job, once a canvas for precision and insight, Now blurs under the haze of distraction and fatigue.
Deadlines loom, but her focus falters. Frustration spills into conversations, Leaving cracks in friendships once firm, And shadows on the impressions she leaves behind.
Ananya is not broken— She is simply caught in the storm of becoming. A woman torn between love for her roots And the desire to plant new ones in foreign soil.
The Waiting Area
As the situation started worsening with time, Ananya decided to get help from a psychologist. She sat in the quiet corridor of the psychologist’s clinic, the hum of the air conditioner barely masking the storm inside her. The walls were pale, sterile—yet her thoughts painted them with hues of doubt, fatigue, and reluctant surrender.
“How did I end up here?” she wondered, fingers nervously tracing the edge of her handbag. She had always been the strong one. The girl who moved countries, built a life from scratch, mastered solitude like an art. And yet, here she was—waiting to speak to someone about the ache she could no longer name.
The nurse called her name. It echoed like a bell tolling in a cathedral of silence. She rose, composed but fragile, and stepped into the room where vulnerability would finally be given a voice.
Inside the Psychologist’s Room
“Please, take a seat,” the psychologist said gently. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
Ananya exhaled, as if releasing months of bottled breath. “Mam, I’ve been restless. Anxious. My mind feels like a crowded street at rush hour.”
“Is there something specific causing this stress? Family? Work?”
She hesitated, then spoke slowly. “It’s about marriage. About going back to India. I don’t want to return, but the pressure is mounting.”
“Do you want to get married?”
“I do. I’m tired of being alone. Ten years of managing everything—groceries, bills, broken faucets, birthdays without hugs. I want someone to love me, to care for me. I want to rest in someone’s arms.”
“Then where’s the confusion?”
“I don’t know what kind of person I’m looking for. I don’t even know if I’ll make a good wife. I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never even dated.”
The psychologist leaned in, her voice calm. “That’s not unusual. These doubts are part of the journey. Are you open to meeting people?”
“Yes. I want a love marriage. I want to meet a few men, spend time, understand them. I want to see how I behave in love, how I grow in companionship.”
“Then do that. Explore. Let your heart learn.”
“But my parents… they want me to marry soon, and only within our community. I don’t want to hurt them. They’re my core. My compass.”
The psychologist paused, then spoke with quiet clarity. “Ananya, you’ve built an ideal image of marriage without truly stepping into its reality. You’re navigating from a blueprint, not experience. Perhaps it’s time to return—not permanently, but for a season. Let India embrace you again. Let family and familiarity soothe your loneliness. In that space, clarity may come—not just about marriage, but about yourself.”
And she sat there, absorbing the words like rain on parched soil. Not healed, not decided—but heard. And sometimes, that’s where healing begins.
Diwali Conversations Over Dinner
Ananya had returned to India, not with resignation, but with a quiet hope— A hope that proximity to home might untangle the knots within. She found herself in a modest PG in Bangalore, Sharing space and stories with Varsha, her college junior from Bihar, And Alka, the free-spirited soul from the distant shores of Andaman and Nicobar.
One evening, as the aroma of dal and cumin filled the room, The three women gathered around their dinner plates, The conversation drifting like incense smoke.
“Are you girls going home for Diwali?” Varsha asked, Her voice laced with anticipation and a hint of nostalgia.
“I am,” Ananya smiled, her eyes lighting up. “After five long years, I’ll finally be home for Diwali. I won’t miss this chance to feel the warmth of old walls and familiar laughter.”
“I’m not going,” Alka said, her tone flat but loaded.
Varsha looked up, surprised. “Why not? You never miss Diwali at home.”
Alka sighed, pushing rice around her plate. “This year, the entire maternal clan is gathering at my mom’s village. And I know the first question will be—‘Why aren’t you married yet?’ Then there’s my smoking. Fifteen days without cigarettes? I’ll lose my mind.”
Ananya raised an eyebrow. “No one knows about your habits?”
“Not a soul,” Alka replied. “If my parents ever found out, It would shatter them. I’ve built a façade too carefully to let it crumble.”
Varsha chuckled, teasing, “So the weekend party queen, Who never returns before sunrise, is worried about her image?”
“And sometimes doesn’t return at all,” Ananya added with a grin.
Alka laughed, but her eyes held a flicker of truth. “I’m not the only one. Most of our generation lives this double life. Back home, me and my brother are the gold standard— The ‘cultured kids’ everyone praises. If they knew the Bangalore version of me, All the pride my parents earned would turn to ash.”
She paused, then said softly, “So this Diwali, I’ll stay back. I’ll craft a reason that sounds noble, And protect the illusion they cherish.”
The fan hummed overhead, casting lazy shadows on the walls as the three roommates lounged in their pajamas, dinner plates cleared, hearts still full of conversation.
Alka, brushing her hair with slow strokes, turned to Varsha with a smile. “Varsha, you must be heading home for Chhath Puja, right? It’s sacred for you Biharis.”
Varsha smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Not this time. Goa calls. Ravin and I have plans. Sunsets over rituals, just for this year.”
Alka gasped theatrically. “Ravin? That’s guy number three in two months! Bumble’s turned into your personal dating jackpot.”
Ananya, curled up with a pillow, joined the banter. “What's hilarious is how you spend hours discussing Shaadi.com matches with your mom, While simultaneously swiping on Bumble like a pro. Isn’t that a contradiction wrapped in confusion?”
Varsha laughed, unfazed. “Not confusion—strategy. I want a love marriage, yes. But if someone from Shaadi.com checks all my boxes, why not? I see both platforms as allies, not enemies. It’s not contradiction—it’s diversification.”
Alka chuckled, tossing her comb aside. “Only you could turn marriage into a multi-channel campaign.”
The room fell into a soft silence, punctuated by the distant honk of a Bangalore auto. “Let’s sleep,” Alka murmured, pulling her blanket. “Or we’ll end up solving the entire Indian matrimonial system tonight.”
Homecoming in the Light of Diwali
After five long years of distant Diwalis lit by city skylines and foreign streets, Ananya finally packed her bags—not just with clothes, but with memories waiting to be rekindled. She took two weeks off, a rare indulgence, To return to the place where her story began.
The train rolled into Lucknow on a Friday night, And with every mile closer, her heart beat louder. At the doorstep, her parents stood like sentinels of love, Their eyes gleaming brighter than the diyas lining the porch.
Her arrival painted their Diwali in hues of joy, Yet beneath the laughter and sweets, A quiet heaviness lingered— A shared silence that tiptoed around old arguments, Careful not to disturb the fragile peace of reunion.
Her parents, sensing the weight she carried, Wrapped her in gentleness, As if love itself could be a balm for the anxiety she had battled alone.
“Wake up, beta,” her father whispered the next morning, “Let’s go for a walk.”
She rose, the morning sun brushing her face like an old friend. Her mother smiled, handing her a scarf. “You look wonderful. Come back soon—we’ll have tea together.”
Outside, the town had changed— New buildings, wider roads, But the air still smelled of marigolds and memories.
“I missed this,” Ananya said, “The mornings, the quiet, the way our town glows in its own rhythm.”
On the way back, her father suggested a detour. “To Sinha uncle’s place. Just for a while.”
There, laughter greeted her before the door even opened. “Welcome, welcome!” Sourabh grinned, “An NRI in our humble home! Let me look at you properly—first time I’m meeting someone US-return.”
Ananya laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in months. “Sourabh! You’ve grown into a fine man. How’s life treating you?”
“Good,” he replied, pride tucked into his modest tone. “Posted here as a bank manager. And you? You must have stories—life in the US, the world beyond these lanes.”
She smiled, eyes drifting to the window where the sun filtered through old curtains. “Yes, I have stories. But today, I just want to listen your story.”
A Conversation in a neighbour’s familiar home
The sun started rising up over the rooftops of the small town, casting shiney shadows on the narrow lanes. Ananya and Sourabh sat on the veranda of Sinha uncle’s house, sipping tea that tasted of nostalgia and unsaid truths.
Sourabh leaned back, his voice casual but curious. “You seem well, Ananya. Life in the US must be incredible. I imagine you’ll settle there for good?”
Ananya smiled, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “Yes, life there is vibrant—structured, free, full of possibilities. I came back just for a breather, to be with my parents for a while. But the plan is to return. That’s where I see myself building a life.”
Then she tilted her head. “But tell me—what are you doing here, in this quiet town, after an Engineering degree from IIT and an MBA from IIM? You were meant for boardrooms in glass towers, not chalkboards in dusty classrooms. Why walk away from everything you worked for?”
Ananya’s eyes softened. “I was born here, Sourabh. This soil knows my footsteps. Yes, I chased the dream—top grades, top firms, top salaries. I wanted to escape the financial struggle that shaped my childhood. For me, education was a ladder out of scarcity.”
She paused, then continued. “But for my parents, education was never about escape—it was about impact. My mother has run a school for underprivileged children for years. When I graduated, she asked me to use my privilege to serve. And I realized—if my success doesn’t bring joy to the people who raised me, what’s the point?”
Ananya leaned forward. “But where does your IIM education fit into all this?”
Sourabh smiled. “I’ve used it to transform the school. We now teach up to Class 12, charge just ₹500 a month, and focus on holistic development. Our teachers are women—housewives with degrees, once feeling forgotten. Now, they’re empowered, earning, and proud. We’ve built something meaningful.”
Ananya looked impressed. “You seem settled. Content.”
“I am,” he said. “But it’s not without its trade-offs. Being young in today’s world means craving freedom—space to be, to explore, to stumble. Living with parents, even loving ones, means curating your life to protect their peace. You can’t come home late, or live unfiltered. You live in constant negotiation between self and family.”
He nodded. “Your parents seem modern, though.”
“They’re trying,” Ananya said warmly. “Every day, they stretch themselves to understand me. But the world is changing faster than hearts can adapt. AI, social media, global content—these things widen the gap. I often find myself editing my truth, sharing only what’s safe.”
Sourabh sighed. “That’s a powerful thought. I think many of us are living that way.”
“Absolutely,” Ananya replied. “We’re torn between two scripts—one that tells us to ‘be ourselves,’ and another that reminds us of our roots. We binge-watch freedom but live with restraint. This duality breeds anxiety, loneliness. And we rarely talk about it.”
Sourabh looked down at his empty cup. “I feel that too. More than I admit.”
The sky had turned indigo. A distant temple bell rang. “I’ve loved this conversation,” he said, rising. “But I should go—Mom will be waiting.”
Ananya smiled, and together with her father, she walked back home— Carrying with her the weight of dreams, the warmth of belonging, And the quiet ache of a generation caught between worlds.
🎆 Diwali’s Embrace
This Diwali, the glow in Ananya’s home came not just from flickering diyas, But from the laughter echoing through the rooms, From shared meals and stories retold under starlit skies. Her brother, now a doctor, had returned too— And with him, the house felt fuller, the air lighter.
For Ananya, the festive season was more than celebration— It was a quiet healing. The love of her family, the rhythm of familiar streets, The scent of incense and childhood—all worked gently To untangle the knots of anxiety she had carried for months.
In the comfort of home, she found a rare clarity— Not a roadmap, but a compass. A sense of peace began to settle in her bones, And the future, once foggy, began to shimmer with possibility.
💍 A Wedding in Delhi
After the holidays, Ananya boarded a train to Delhi, To witness the union of Neelima and Pranay— Her colleagues, her confidants, Two souls who had quietly built a life together over two years.
At the wedding, the air was thick with joy and jasmine. Their parents beamed, narrating a tale of serendipity— A chance meeting at a friend’s birthday party, A divine match, they said, written in the stars.
What they didn’t know—what no one mentioned— Was that the “friend” was Bumble, And the love story had unfolded in a shared apartment long before the rituals.
Ananya smiled, watching the dance of tradition and modernity. Neelima and Pranay, like many young Indians, Had woven their own tapestry of love— One that honored their desires while gently cradling their parents’ dreams.
She danced, she laughed, she celebrated— Not just the couple, but the quiet revolution of choice, Of lives lived authentically, yet respectfully.
✈️ Return to Bangalore
As the flight soared back to Bangalore, Ananya sat by the window, her heart a mosaic of emotions— The ache of leaving home, the joy of witnessing love, The admiration for people like Ravin, Who had chosen family over ambition, And the quiet wonder at how many paths Could lead to fulfillment. She opened her phone, pulled up her notepad, And began to write—
“In the mosaic of modern India, the youth walk a tightrope stretched between two realms— One, a world of algorithms and aspirations, shaped by reels, screens, and global dreams. The other, a quieter place, where tradition still whispers through the walls of ancestral homes.
Social media pulses like a second heartbeat, feeding young minds with global visions — Of freedom, of choice, of voices unbound. Yet back home, the rhythm is slower, steadier, steeped in values passed down like heirlooms.
This duality births a quiet storm within— A tug-of-war between self-expression and filial devotion, Between the urge to soar and the need to stay rooted.
And so, they learn the art of balance. Neelima and Pranay, curating their truths like seasoned storytellers, shielding their parents from chapters that might unsettle peace. Varsha and Alka, skipping festive homecomings not out of rebellion, but to steal a few sacred hours of unfiltered freedom.
Yet, beneath the layers of modernity, the soul of young India still beats for family. Their parents’ wishes are not burdens—they are compass points. And in Ravin, we see the beautiful fusion— A spirit that dances with both the past and the future, Wearing tradition like a sherwani and ambition like a tailored suit.”
