"A cosmos cradled, a stardust heart,

Birthed in pain, a masterpiece of art.

Days into nights bleed, a ceaseless tide ensues,

Shadows hidden, lullabies lost and askew.

A fragile bloom in tenderest care,

A mother's vigil, a fervent prayer.

In milk-white depths, a soul does feed,

A cosmic dance, a sacred creed.

A symphony of cries, a lullaby's plea,

In shadowed nights, a mother's reverie.

Nipples cracked, a tender, aching art,

A heart aflame, a mother's ardent part.

A fragile bloom, a tender, precious seed, 

In nurturing hands, hope decreed. 

With every coo, a world of joy unfurled, 

A mother's spirit, a universe hurled.

Postpartum shadows, a melancholic hue,

A fragile psyche wounded anew.

In silent moments, a soul's deep cry,

A search for solace beneath the sky.

A balancing act, a delicate tightrope,

Career and motherhood, a hopeful elope.

With every challenge, a strength unveiled, 

A mother's resilience forever hailed.

A tiny hand, a world to explore, 

In curious eyes, a future to adore. 

With every milestone, a heart's sweet ache, 

A mother's love, a soulful awake.

With every breath and deep sigh,

The universe looks on as the mother strives,

Pushing through the muck and water,

Like an eternal lotus, does she bloom?

And so, the cradle, an ethereal sphere,

Where love is born, and hope is clear.

A bond unyielding, a soul entwined,

In this blessed journey, selfless love,

enshrined."

-Elegiac_Damsel

______

Third person's point of view:

Kolkata, India

October 30

The City of Joy, a sprawling metropolis wrapped in a timeless embrace of tradition and modernity, was settling into the rhythm of the late autumn evening. The sky, painted with hues of foggy purple, cast a melancholic glow over the city. A gentle breeze, carrying the sweet scent of fallen leaves and the distant aroma of fried snacks being sold by the dozens across every street, caressed the faces of weary commuters. The traffic, a relentless tide of honking vehicles, inched forward, a testament to the city's vibrant pulse. Amidst the chaos, life carried on - hawkers called out their wares, shops displayed their festive lights, and families gathered for evening prayers. 

Debarghya, his head lolling against the bus seat, was a solitary island of weariness amidst this bustling sea. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy, mirrored the city's fatigued rhythm. A dread-tinged anticipation had replaced the once familiar relief of returning home after a demanding and exhausting day. It had been a little over two weeks since they had welcomed their daughter home, and while the arrival of their daughter had been a joyous upheaval, a whirlwind of emotions, it had swept their lives into a new, uncharted territory. Sleep, once a comforting companion, had become an elusive luxury, stolen in fragments by the shrill cries of their newborn. The once vibrant Mrinalini, now a shadow of her former self, bore the brunt of the relentless demands of motherhood. Their home, once a haven of peace, had transformed into a battlefield of exhaustion and conflicting emotions.

He was well aware of the joy and happiness that his daughter had brought forth. Mrinalini glowed with the onset of motherhood, caring affectionately for her child, unflinching even at three in the morning when she cried out, seeking her mother's milk and warmth. However, the lack of sleep and the physiological and psychological changes that were unavoidable postpartum were starting to affect her severely. Although she tried to passively channel the acute exhaustion that had set in within a week of taking care of her daughter by herself, the effect had been quite catastrophic. She would randomly have arguments with Debarghya over something as trivial as the time he had to leave for work, although it had never changed in the four years that they had been married. She would sometimes cry over the soreness of her breasts and lean with exhaustion, hollow-eyed, staring into the void, the darkness, as the demands of her maternal role sucked the life out of her.

Debarghya, too, felt the strain. While his role was more peripheral, the constant crying of the baby had disrupted his sleep, leaving him feeling irritable and on edge. The once peaceful evenings at home were now filled with a palpable tension. He yearned for the old life, the quiet evenings, the shared laughter. But guilt gnawed at him. He knew that his exhaustion was nothing compared to what Mrinalini was enduring. Yet, the weight of it all was slowly crushing him, and he found himself retreating into a shell, a silent observer of the storm raging within their home. 

Amidst the chaos, there were also moments of pure, unadulterated joy. The first time they had held their daughter in their arms, a tiny, fragile being, had been a euphoric experience beyond words. Her soft skin, the delicate curve of her fingers, and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest filled them with a sense of wonder. Every milestone was celebrated - her first smile or, more aptly, a toothless curving of her lips in a drowsy haze, her first coo, the first time she touched their faces, her furrowed brows relaxing with the relief of recognition and trust. The once pristine, modest walls of their tiny flat were now adorned with baby clothes, toys, and the gentle glow of night lights. The air was filled with the sweet, comforting scent of baby powder. Their home, once a sanctuary of peace, was now a bustling nursery, with clothes hanging to dry on makeshift lines, a diaper changing station set up in the corner of their bedroom that once used to be a study table, and a cot-cum-cradle occupying precious space, nestling their very heartstring.

The nights were a symphony of cries, hushed whispers, and the rhythmic rocking of a cradle. It was a world away from the quietude they once cherished. Yet, as they watched their daughter sleep, a tiny, vulnerable being in their care, their hearts swelled with love. It was a bittersweet symphony, a delicate balance of exhaustion and ecstasy. The joys of parenthood were immense, but so were the challenges.

Unlike Mrinalini, Debarghya had to return to work within a week of their daughter's birth. While a part of him had been disappointed at the sheer lack of time that he could devote to his newborn child, missing out on precious moments that would never come back, a significant part of him breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the distraction and hours away at work was a blessing that he cherished, something that his wife was going to be deprived of. They had mutually agreed to try and raise their child as organically as possible, skipping the hassle of employing a caretaker or nanny, at least until Mrinalini's maternity leave ended. It would save them money that was already scarce, especially with the expenses mounting sky-high. It would also let them experience raising their child how they wanted to, helping her through each first, suitable from when she would take her first roll voluntarily or when she would eventually start crawling and taking little baby steps.

The bus jerked to a halt, its screeching brakes jolting Debarghya back to the present. The familiar landmarks of his neighbourhood came into view, a comforting sight amidst the weariness that enveloped him. As he stepped off the bus, the evening air, carrying the faint aroma of cooked food and the distant hum of traffic, washed over him. He began the short walk home, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The exhaustion was palpable, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Yet, the anticipation of seeing his wife and daughter was a counterbalance, a flicker of warmth in the cold expanse of tiredness. He wondered about her day, their daughter's routine, and the countless challenges they must have faced. The weight of responsibility, the fear of inadequacy, and the overwhelming love for his family coalesced into a complex emotion, a bittersweet symphony playing in the depths of his mind.

He climbed up the familiar flights of stairs, his feet aching with each step. His black formal shoes desperately needed a replacement, but he had forfeited the indulgence. Having recently bought a new washing machine during the Diwali sale, there was now a new E.M.I. to pay off, adding to the mounting responsibility of a newborn, insurance premiums, credit card bills, medical bills of his mother and Mrinalini's grandmother, combined with the house loan that was still a couple of years away from being repaid completely. Debarghya knew that the expenses would be constant and that they would eventually be stable once a few E.M.I.s were paid off, but the stress was hectic nonetheless.

He sighed as he reached the third floor, shrugging off his shoes and grabbing the brush to polish it, preparing it in advance for the next day. He kept them away on the shoe rack and reached over to the doorbell, pressing down on it once gently.

Mrinalini came to the door after a while, opening it for him. Her face was flushed, sweltering even with the pleasant evening breeze, complete with clear signs of exhaustion. 

"I had texted you not to ring the doorbell," she said quietly, reaching for her husband's messenger bag. "I just got Medha to settle down a while ago. She has been irritable since morning today."

"I am sorry," he replied sheepishly. "I didn't see your text in time. She's still asleep, though, isn't she?"

She nodded in response. "She stirred, but I rocked her back to sleep. She is in your mother's room on the bed. I was going to get dinner started."

"I am going in for a shower," he replied with a feeble smile. "Did you get any sleep during the afternoon?"

"No, Debarghya. She was crying all the time today. I tried feeding her, speaking to her, rocking her to sleep, singing lullabies. I tried everything," Mrinalini responded with a grimace. "She eventually got tired of crying and fell asleep. Your mother keeps telling me that it is normal for babies to cry without rhyme or reason, but my mind can't stop thinking if there is something wrong that she's trying to convey to us, you know. Moreover, my head is throbbing, and I am feeling nauseated all the time. That doesn't help at all."

"Do you have to make something for dinner, or is there anything in the refrigerator that we can make with tonight?" he asked her. "You can take it easy tonight."

"My mother sent over some banana stems that she had made in the morning," Mrinalini replied. "I just need to make some lentils, roll out the dough and make some rotis. Your mother said that she'll have some rice tonight, so I just have to heat it. It isn't going to be much of a trouble." 

"Employ someone to help you with this, Mrinal," he replied with a sigh. "It isn't going to get easier anytime soon."

"Debarghya," Mrinalini said quietly. "I know how much the two of us make combined, and I am not unaware of the constant expenses. We don't need to engage someone to do something that I can do. I have you and our mothers around. Let's manage till we can, okay? I am not complaining, and I am not at the brink of complete exhaustion. Some people manage so much more with fewer resources. We don't need anything else."

Debarghya hummed introspectively in response, turning towards their bedroom. "Mrinal, is the..."

"The geyser's on," she replied with a smile before he could complete the question. "Your towel's on the rack."

...

Mrinalini and Debarghya were rudely awakened by a piercing cry that jolted them out of sleep. 

Debarghya was the first to react, his groggy mind instantly alert. Mrinalini's eyelids felt like lead, and the effort to pry them open demanded extraordinary willpower. He asked her if a bottle was ready, his voice a rough whisper in the quiet of the night. As they fumbled around in the dim light, trying to locate the essentials, their baby girl's cries grew louder, a desperate plea that cut through the sleepy haze.

The battle to soothe Medha is an exhausting dance of rhythmic pats, hushed lullabies, and the gentle swaying of her cradle. Every successful attempt at calming her is followed by a brief respite, a fragile moment of peace before the crying starts anew. As dawn begins to paint the sky, a heavy silence settles over the room. Debarghya, defeated but relieved, sinks into the bed, his head in his hands. Mrinalini, still holding Medha, sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and worry.

"I don't know what else to do," she whispers, her voice barely audible. Debarghya looks up, his face etched with sympathy and fatigue. "It's not your fault, sweetheart," he assures her, reaching out to hold her hand, letting a rare endearment seep into the conversation. "She's just a baby. This is bound to happen." But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. The endless nights and the constant uncertainty were taking a toll on them both.

Mrinalini shook her head, her voice trembling slightly. "I feel like such a failure. I can't seem to understand her. It's like she's speaking a different language. I am her mother. I am supposed to know. Why am I unable to?" 

A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. Debarghya gently took the baby from her arms, setting her down on the cot, and pulled her into a gentle embrace. He knew there were no easy answers, no magic solutions.

"I am going to read up on this. How to get your newborn to sleep through the night," Mrinalini resolved as she broke away from his embrace, her feet swinging over the edge of the bed as she prepared to rise for the day. "Get some sleep, Debarghya."

"You aren't going anywhere right now," he said, pulling her back into bed. "We both have a couple of hours before we need to be up and about. Take some rest."

"But," she started, only to be silenced by him as he pulled her into a lying position before tucking the duvet around them. "Shhh, get some sleep."

She passed out before his head could hit the pillow beside hers.

...

November 5

"How's my little niece doing?" Anumegha's voice was sweet as she took Medha into her arms. It was a Friday evening, and like every weekend since the little girl's birth, her aunt had come by to spend the night with her son so the two cousins could bond.

"She's doing well. She has a healthy set of lungs," Mrinalini said with a light laugh. Her eyes had dark circles underneath, and her body always felt sore and fatigued. Her thick and long hair had started falling out in clumps, leaving her in a gradually deteriorating mental state. "She's been keeping you up all night, right?" Anumegha asked, her brow raised inquisitively. "Riddhi used to do the same. Srijit would often take him out for hours at night so I could sleep for a bit. My mother-in-law would take him to sleep in her bedroom when Srijit and I had to catch up on sleep. It was a challenging period, but it didn't last for too long."

"She has been this way for weeks," Mrinalini confided to her sister-in-law. "It is easier when your brother's around, but he hasn't been for the past week as he had to go out of town for work. I can't ask Ma. Medha is already a lot to handle during the day, and she does try to help me, but I cannot ask her to help me during the night. Moreover, she won't be able to take her around, rock her, or keep up with the endless energy she miraculously gets at night when it's time for everyone to sleep. It is exhausting."

"It's okay, Boudi," Anumegha replied understandingly. "It is okay for a mother not to like it when their child is crying at the top of her lungs at three in the morning. You know that it doesn't lessen your love for her. It doesn't make her feel like a burden. In fact, most of the time, when you feel exhausted and angry, it is rarely at your baby but mostly directed at yourself. You feel helpless and incapable of taking care of your child. You feel resentment and disappointment settle into the pit of your stomach, unable to forget or forgive that your child is crying aloud, seeking your help, but even after everything that you try and do, it ends up falling short. I know it is a lot more difficult for you when Dada isn't around or because Ma cannot logistically help you as my mother-in-law could, but it isn't your failure to take care of your daughter, Boudi."

"Thank you, Brishti di," Mrinalini replied gratefully, her eyes glistening as she lowered her gaze, fixating it on her daughter, who was looking up at her and her aunt curiously. "I needed to hear that. It's just been a rough few weeks, and there are times when I have done everything that I could, but she still hasn't settled down. I feed her, sing to her, talk to her, walk her around in my arms, rock her gently, and yet she seems to keep crying. I try to rub her feet and caress her head, but nothing ever stops her, and those are times when I feel like cursing myself. I don't know what else to do. I feel helpless and useless at the same time. Sometimes, she refuses to latch when I bring her up to feed, breaking me from within. It is daunting. I don't know if I am doing it right or wrong."

"It's going to be okay, Boudi," Anumegha reassured her sister-in-law. "Now Riddhi was waiting for his little sister to be fed and changed before he could play. She is up and about and fidgeting now, so shall we get him?"

Mrinalini nodded with a smile. "Meanwhile, I'll get dinner started. I am reassured knowing my daughter will be fine with her aunt and elder brother."

"I know the fears, Boudi," Anumegha replied with a gentle smile. "It is natural to feel everything that you are. Nothing is irrational or over the top where a child is concerned for a mother."

...

The clock ticked with an unforgiving rhythm, its hands inching towards half-past three in the morning. The ethereal cradle, once a symbol of comfort and nurture, had transformed into a battlefield. Mrinalini, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, sat on the edge of the bed, her back aching from hours of nursing attempts. The soft glow of the nightlight cast eerie shadows on the walls, amplifying the solitude of the night.

Medha, her tiny form nestled against Mrinalini's chest, whimpered softly, her hunger a persistent undercurrent to the quietude of the house. Mrinalini's heart ached with every failed attempt to get her daughter to latch. The baby's delicate skin, soft and warm against hers, was a stark contrast to the cold dread creeping into her own heart.

She couldn't call for help. It was too late to disturb anyone. Her mother-in-law, with her frail health and limited mobility, was a world away in her room. Her sister-in-law, a young mother herself, was fast asleep in the adjacent room with her own child. The house, once a bustling hub of family, was now an island of isolation.

The weight of loneliness pressed down on her, a suffocating blanket of despair. She was a mother, a protector, but at this moment, she felt utterly helpless. The ethereal cradle, designed to be a haven of peace, had become a haunting reminder of her struggles. A sob escaped her lips, a silent plea for relief. She rocked her daughter gently, her mind a fog of fatigue and frustration. The first rays of dawn were beginning to paint the sky when, finally, Medha latched on. Relief washed over Mrinalini as she fed her baby, the rhythmic sucking a soothing balm to her weary soul. With a full tummy, Medha drifted off to sleep, her soft breath a lullaby to Mrinalini's heart.

Putting her baby down next to her on the bed, surrounding her with little bolsters and covering her with a soft, small blanket, Mrinalini leaned against the bed's headboard. Exhaustion finally claimed her as she fell into an uneasy slumber, her body aching, her mind replaying the night's ordeal. The morning sun was streaming through the window when she was jolted awake by the faint sound of the front door opening. Panicked, she rushed out of the bedroom only to find Debarghya, her husband, standing in the doorway, his face etched with concern. He had his trolley luggage next to him. The spare key to their home was in his hand. 

In her distress, Mrinalini had utterly forgotten about Debarghya's impending arrival, something that she generally looked forward to after a few days apart, now more than ever, with their baby in tow. The sight of him was a lifeline. In an impulsive move, she rushed towards him, her hands going around his waist as she clutched him tightly, and before she could stop herself, she broke down, her tears a silent testament to the night's torment.

"What's wrong?" she could hear him ask as he stood awkwardly, trying to figure out her state of mind. "Is Medha okay?"

"Why do you never ask if I am okay?" she asked him through her tears. "All through this week, when you called me, you never asked me if I was alright. You asked me if I had fed our child and if she was okay or if she was sleeping, but you never bothered to ask me if I had eaten, if I had got enough rest or if I needed to talk to you. Why?"

Closing the front door, Debarghya brought an arm around his wife's shoulders, her build and stature feeling smaller than usual. He led her towards their room, his luggage left abandoned in the doorway. 

"Sit down, Mrinal," he said quietly, his exhaustion from a week away at work apparent despite the stoic nature of his expression. "What happened to you? What's wrong? Can I help you with anything?"

"You can't," she confessed sullenly. "She just won't stop crying at night. I try to feed her, but she won't latch. I try to put her to sleep, but her crying makes her nose runny, and those tiny whimpers echo all around the room afterward. It breaks my heart every time that I see her struggle. I don't know what to do. I let her suck on my finger for a bit, hoping that it would relax her. I sing lullabies, I play soothing music on my phone, and I talk to her, but nothing seems to work. For the past two nights, I have felt her body temperature rising with the amount that she's cried. Her face turns red. You weren't around. I am exhausted. I don't know what more I can do. I know you have work to do and that you come back with fatigue and stress, but I feel your absence, the void. Am I not trying hard enough? I don't know what I can do, Debarghya. Why is our child crying at night? Is it my fault? Am I doing something wrong? Is there something wrong with my breastmilk? Is she not getting enough nutrition that is making her cry so hard, or is it that I do not have it in me to comfort her enough?"

Debarghya was momentarily quiet. He ran his hand over his bearded jaw, the coarse black hair that often felt prickly and rough against Mrinalini's skin, now specked with some grey. Age, stress, and responsibilities were taking a toll on him. "I have told you time and again," he began at length. "It isn't your fault or lack that is making her cry at night. Babies take time to adjust to schedules. They cannot tell us if there's something wrong. They cry. You do remember when Riddhi was a baby, and he had grabbed his own hair, don't you? He kept crying because he couldn't understand what was wrong and that no one was doing anything to him. We cannot predict or not try hard enough with a baby, Mrinal. And you are doing more than enough. Breaking down won't help either of us. We signed up for this when we embraced parenthood, didn't we?"

She nodded. Her gaze flickered towards their daughter, who had her tiny fist raised in the air as she sucked her free thumb in her ignorantly peaceful sleep. "One would be deluded by how peacefully she is asleep right now," she commented with a sarcastic laugh. "I am sorry for not asking about you, Mrinal," Debarghya's sheepish voice brought her back to their conversation. "It never occurred to me consciously or subconsciously that I hadn't asked about your well-being throughout this week. And that's on me. It never came to my mind that I hadn't. I spoke to you every day, and yet, I missed out on it. I am sorry."

"You didn't talk to your wife for a week, Debarghya," Mrinalini told him pensively. "I know you spoke to me, but it was you speaking to your child's mother rather than your wife. You asked me everything about the baby, and it was to be expected, but you didn't ask me anything. Before the baby was born, every time you'd call, you would ask me how I was doing. You did so during my pregnancy and before, but after our baby's birth, you obliterated that part of me that is your wife and a different, whole person. When I spoke to you this week, I didn't rant to you about our child and the struggles that I have been facing all alone. I asked you if you'd eaten on time, got enough sleep at night, and had paid the electricity bill. If I can remember you as my husband, someone more than my daughter's father, why can't you?"

"I'm tired, Mrinal," he replied. "You're overthinking. When I spoke to you, I didn't distinguish you as my child's mother and not my wife. You know how busy it is. We barely get to talk when I am away for work. How do you expect me to think through so much at once? You know how it is. You didn't marry me yesterday. Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill?"

"I am not," she insisted. "I just wanted to talk to you. I need someone to confide in. I need someone to share my woes with. I think you are the man who's supposed to be my companion in every sense. I just shared my feelings with you. How did your indifference, subconscious or not, feel? I know you've had a tiring week, and I take our crying baby out so that you can sleep at night because I know you have work the next morning, and I don't. I have the luxury of maternity leave, if at all that can be called a luxury, while you don't, so if I can try and be considerate, why can't you?"

"I've had enough of this conversation," he snapped at her. The vein in his temple throbbed. "I am going to take a shower, and then maybe I'll take a small nap. You're most welcome to join me in bed if you're done with this, too. If not, just let me be for a while. Please."

The clock read seven, and Mrinalini knew that her mother-in-law would be up and about. Sparing a last glance at the bathroom door as Debarghya slammed it close behind him, she checked on their daughter and tucked her into her little cradle. She kissed her tiny forehead and smiled. 

The adrenaline from the cruel exchange of words wasn't going to let her rest. She stepped out of their bedroom, heading towards the kitchen. The sting of their brief disagreement lingered in the air, a silent undercurrent to the quiet morning that followed the tumultuous night. Mrinalini, however, found herself unable to ignore the prickle of hurt and frustration. To distract herself from the emotional turmoil, she decided to plunge into a whirlwind of activity. The mundane tasks of household chores and pending work would offer a temporary refuge, a way to channel her energy and avoid the uncomfortable silence that hung heavy in the air.

She went about her work, starting with making tea for her mother-in-law and sister-in-law, followed by the preparations for breakfast and, subsequently, lunch. She opened the door for the maidservant who swept and mopped the floors twice a day and proceeded to load the new automatic washing machine with Debarghya's used clothes from his official tour, followed by the cotton bedsheet that her daughter had vomited all over the previous evening. She added in the liquid detergent followed by the antiseptic liquid that she started using without fail for every piece of clothing that they had in their household following the baby's birth. Being engrossed in work and ignorant of reality was, however, not a luxury that new mothers could afford.

A shrill cry ensued from the bedroom. Her baby daughter had awoken from her slumber and was demanding her attention. Sighing, she walked towards their bedroom and opened the door.

Debarghya had Medha in his arms and was trying to calm her down. "I think she's hungry," he told Mrinalini shortly. "She wouldn't go back to sleep."

"Could you grab the burp cloth for me?" Mrinalini asked him in resignation as she took their daughter from his arms, cradling her gently and taking a seat on their bed. She proceeded to unbutton the old shirt-like kurta that she had on from the night before, and with practised deftness, she unfastened the maternity brassiere. She sighed softly as her baby latched on to her nipple, suckling furiously in a famished haze. 

"Does her body temperature feel slightly high to you?" Debarghya asked Mrinalini. "Her skin seems hot to the touch."

Mrinalini felt Medha's forehead with the back of her hand, her face grimacing with concern and dread. "It does," she said shortly. "Do we take her to the doctor?"

"We can consult the doctor over the phone," he replied. "But maybe we can wait for a bit and try using cold compress and organic methods instead. High temperatures and fevers are common with babies."

"She isn't fussing right now," Mrinalini commented as Medha willingly took her feed. "I'll give her a light sponge bath. Maybe that will bring her body temperature down."

...

November 1

The night was a cacophony of wails and hushed whispers. Medha's fever had spiked, her tiny body trembling with discomfort. The paracetamol, administered with a syringe, had done little to quell the storm within her. Milk, too, was rejected, leaving Mrinalini and Debarghya feeling helpless. They moved like shadows in the dimly lit room, their faces etched with worry. Debarghya tried to soothe her with gentle pats and soft lullabies while Mrinalini alternated between holding her close and trying to find a comfortable position for the restless child.

The night wore on, each hour feeling like an eternity. The once peaceful haven of their bedroom had transformed into a battlefield against an invisible enemy. Mrinalini's heart ached as she watched her baby suffer. The instinct to protect and nurture was a primal force, but at this moment, it felt inadequate. The doctor's words echoed in her mind, 'Fever can be tough on babies, but it's a natural process to fight infection.' Yet, the knowledge did little to comfort her.

As dawn approached, Debarghya's eyes were heavy with exhaustion. He had a demanding day ahead, and the lack of sleep was already taking a toll. Sensing his fatigue, Mrinalini gently nudged his dozing self awake. 

"Go to sleep, please," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I can handle this. You need to rest." 

He hesitated, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. She nodded, her resolve firm. "I'll wake you if anything changes," she assured him. With a heavy heart, he reluctantly lay on the bed, the mattress springs creaking slightly under his weight. He drifted off to sleep almost immediately, his exhaustion pulling him under.

Alone with her daughter, Mrinalini felt a surge of protectiveness. She tried cold compresses on Medha's forehead and was given a sponge bath to bring down the temperature. But the fever raged on, an unrelenting force. A wave of helplessness washed over her. As a mother, her role was to shield her child from harm to provide comfort and security. But at this moment, she felt like a failure.

...

December 12

Two months had passed since the ethereal cradle had welcomed Medha into their world. The initial chaos of newborn life was slowly giving way to a semblance of routine. Debarghya, with his steady hands and gentle demeanour, had become an indispensable partner in this new chapter. Together, they navigated the uncharted waters of parenthood, their love for Medha a constant compass. The once daunting task of feeding, burping, and soothing had transformed into a rhythmic dance, a silent conversation between parent and child.

Mrinalini, with her heart full of maternal love, found herself grappling with the complexities of balancing motherhood with her academic pursuits. Her PhD, once a consuming passion, had been put on hold, its chapters gathering virtual dust. Now, as Medha's needs became more predictable, she was eager to dive back into the world of research. The prospect of working remotely offered a glimmer of hope, a chance to reclaim a part of her identity without compromising her role as a mother. Yet, the reality was far from idyllic. The ethereal cradle, once a symbol of comfort and nurture, was now a reminder of the delicate balance she had to maintain.

Her grandmother's failing health added another layer of complexity to her life. The woman who had been a constant presence, a source of unwavering support, was now increasingly frail. Distance, both physical and emotional, stretched between them, a chasm widened by the demands of motherhood. The guilt gnawed at Mrinalini, a persistent undercurrent to her days. She yearned to be there for her grandmother, to offer the same unwavering support she had received. But the ethereal cradle held her captive, its invisible bonds both comforting and confining.

As Medha's sleep patterns improved, the once sleepless nights were gradually replaced by periods of restful slumber. The house, once filled with the cacophony of a crying infant, now echoed with the soft sounds of a peacefully sleeping baby. These quiet moments offered Mrinalini a respite, a chance to catch her breath and reflect. Yet, the joy of these newfound routines was tempered by a creeping sense of monotony. The days blurred into one another, a repetitive cycle of feeding, burping, changing diapers, and endless rounds of playtime. While she revelled in the simple pleasures of motherhood, a part of her yearned for intellectual stimulation, for the challenges and rewards of her academic pursuits.

Debarghya and Mrinalini had forged a bond through the crucible of parenthood, a partnership built on mutual respect and unwavering love. Their relationship, once defined by shared dreams and aspirations, had undergone a profound transformation. The ethereal cradle had become the epicentre of their world, a space where they navigated the complexities of their evolving roles.

The sporadic bouts of sickness that had plagued their daughter had tested the resilience of their relationship. Sleepless nights, endless rounds of medication, and the heart-wrenching sight of their child in discomfort had pushed them to their limits. In those moments of exhaustion and despair, tensions would sometimes flare, their words tinged with blame and frustration. Yet, amidst the chaos, their love for each other and their child remained a steadfast anchor. They would apologize, holding each other close, their shared pain a silent testament to their enduring bond.

Debarghya was supportive of Mrinalini's decision to resume her PhD work. He understood the importance of her intellectual pursuits and encouraged her to pursue her dreams. They had discussed various childcare options, weighing the pros and cons of daycare, a nanny, and relying on family. The decision to resume monthly commutes to New Delhi for her PhD and work as a research scholar was a complex one, filled with uncertainties. The thought of leaving their child behind was daunting, and the logistics of raising a child while juggling work in two different cities were overwhelming. For now, the remote work arrangement was a temporary solution, a bridge to a future filled with both challenges and opportunities.

Their relationship had evolved beyond the realm of romance, deepening into a profound companionship. The ethereal cradle had witnessed the birth of their love, nurturing it through the trials of parenthood. They were learning to find joy in the ordinary, to cherish the small moments, and to support each other's dreams. The journey ahead was uncertain, but they were determined to face it together, their hands clasped tightly, their hearts filled with hope.

Following Medha's bouts of sickness with frequent infections and minimal weight gain, Mrinalini and Debarghya had been asked to introduce her to formula instead of relying entirely on breastmilk. The paediatrician's words, suggesting formula supplementation, felt like a personal affront. Breastfeeding had been a cornerstone of her maternal identity, a symbol of her connection with Medha. The idea of diluting that bond with artificial milk was a bitter pill to swallow. The transition was fraught with emotional turmoil. Guilt, inadequacy, and a sense of failure gnawed at her. Her relationship with Medha, once a purely instinctual connection, now carried the weight of conscious decision-making. The ethereal cradle, once a sanctuary of comfort, had become a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

Debarghya, ever the supportive partner, walked beside her through this storm. Yet, even he couldn't fully comprehend the depth of her pain. His practical approach, while helpful, sometimes felt like an intrusion into her emotional world. The cracks in their relationship, once papered over by the overwhelming demands of newborn care, began to widen. The shared exhaustion that had once bonded them was now a source of tension. The once familiar rhythm of their days was disrupted, replaced by a cacophony of uncertainty.

On the brighter side, the decision to return to work, once a daunting prospect, now seemed slightly less overwhelming. The knowledge that Medha could gradually learn to sustain on formula provided a measure of relief, a step towards settling her into life as a child with a working mother. However, the logistical challenges remained. Finding reliable childcare, managing work deadlines, and ensuring Medha's well-being were all pieces of a complex puzzle. The ethereal cradle, once a symbol of maternal captivity, was now a metaphor for the delicate balance she had to strike. The journey ahead was fraught with challenges, but Mrinalini was determined to navigate it one step at a time.

"Ma, I have a meeting at noon," Mrinalini informed her mother-in-law. "Could you please take care of her for an hour? I'll feed her and put her to sleep. I'll also pump some milk and keep a bottle ready. Is it okay?"

"She might as well stay in the same room as you, Mrinal," Debarghya remarked lightly. "If she's going to be asleep, it would be better if you're around."

"I can manage looking over my granddaughter, son," Debjani intervened. "I have raised you and your siblings and have even handled my grandson. It isn't tough."

"She is fussy sometimes, Ma," Debarghya explained. "I am not doubting your ability to take care of her. She tends to feel a lot more safe and secure around her mother, especially if she wakes up suddenly in between a nap. It might just be difficult for you to handle her then. You know that she likes being taken around the house while being pacified. You can't do that while balancing your crutch. It will just be simpler if she remains with Mrinalini. She's going to be asleep anyway."

"I can't pacify a child while having a meeting virtually," Mrinalini commented. "It will look very unprofessional. Besides, there is a chance in a hundred that she'll wake up within an hour. Ma can feed her with the bottle, right? That will calm her down if she's crying. She can also be distracted by her toys. I'll set them up in Ma's room beforehand."

"There's no need to be stressed out over one hour," Debjani reasoned. "Infants can easily be handled even if they are away from their mothers. There's nothing wrong with it, son. I can handle my baby granddaughter. And in case there's an urgency, Bouma will be right in the next room, isn't she?"

Mrinalini nodded, agreeing with her mother-in-law. Debarghya shrugged reluctantly. "It's up to you both. I won't be at home anyway," he remarked casually. "It's getting late. I'll be on my way now."

At the front door, he stood patiently as he shrugged on his formal shoes, waiting for Mrinalini, who had gone to fetch his bag. "All the best with the meeting, Mrinal," he told her softly before parting. "Don't stress yourself too hard. It's just the first day back. Research requires consistent effort rather than headfast diving, which can be exhausting. You have got this."

Soft smiles were exchanged between the two of them as Mrinalini closed the door gently. A soft cry ensued from the master bedroom, making her sigh. It was time to get back on track, irrespective of the responsibilities she had to juggle. She had to not give up on her dreams. After all, she had a daughter now, who had to be taught that dreams don't die should you choose and resolve to win before the battle starts.

...

December 31

The cusp of a new year often carried an ethereal quality, a promise of renewal that shimmered like frost on a winter morning. 

For Mrinalini, this particular transition felt both heavy and hopeful. Three months had passed since her daughter's birth, a cosmic shift that had transformed her existence into exquisite chaos. The ethereal cradle of motherhood, once a distant dream, was now her tangible reality. Juggling the demands of a newborn, the resumption of her PhD research—which she had tentatively embarked upon a few weeks ago—and the recent, abrupt loss of her grandmother had stretched her resilience to its limits. Rai, her mother, a widow who had been the sole companion to her mother-in-law, was grappling with a sorrow as profound as her own. Debarghya, with his unwavering support, had become an anchor in their storm-tossed lives. Yet, the relentless tide of motherhood often left little room for grief, for the academy had become a sanctuary, a space where her intellect could find solace and purpose.

Debaparna, or Medha as everyone called her at home, was starting to show signs of recognition for her grandmothers, her cousin, Archisman, and her aunt, Anumegha. She was learning how to try and turn to her side, although rolling over seemed like a distant goal. She cried a lot less now and had readily learned how to play with the mini rattles and soft sensory balls that were safe for a baby to use. She also made attempts to make audible coos sometimes at night when Mrinalini and Debarghya tried to make conversation, almost like she was protesting at being ignored by her parents and subsequently demanding their attention.

Mrinalini would laugh at her daughter's antics and lift her out of her cot, cradling her close, whispering into her ears and nuzzling her nose into her soft baby skin, making her illicit a low semblance of a giggle. Her tiny lips would be pursed when she wanted to cry, and she loved trying to touch Debarghya's beard and moustache and playing with the sacred thread that he wore across his torso. The small nuances that constituted the simple moments of parenthood helped them sustain and survive the tedious challenges that they navigated through daily on both personal and professional fronts.

"We need to start saving up for Medha's rice ceremony," Debarghya told Mrinalini as she tucked in the corner of the sheet that she was changing on their bed. "She is almost three months old. Ideally, we should be getting the ceremony done by the time she completes six months. It isn't a lot of time, but we can tighten our belts and save up some for the celebrations. After all, she's only child."

"We need to get it done in the fifth month," Mrinalini reasoned. "Girls have their annaprashan ceremony organised in the odd months. My maternity leave comes to an end at six months. It would be good if we could introduce her to some solid foods, even if it is simply instant baby cereal like Cerelac before she has to sustain herself with me not being around. She's already been introduced to formula pretty early on due to her low body weight. Why wait until she reaches seven months?"

"That pushes the date of the ceremony ahead, Mrinal," he remarked pensively. "We can manage. I have a fixed deposit that is going to mature in a few weeks' time, and we can set aside money from the salaries that we'll receive in January and February. That way, we can easily organise the rice ceremony somewhere around the end of February or the beginning of March. Do you think your cousin can make it then? The maternal uncle is traditionally supposed to feed the child's first morsel. We would also need to ask him, won't we?"

"Our daughter will have her rice ceremony irrespective of whether or not he turns up," Mrinalini replied firmly. "He's been absent in our lives for over four years now. They didn't even come here for Thamma's last rites or prayer meet. We did everything by ourselves. You had to light her pyre even though she has a son and a grandson who's still alive. I'll notify him out of courtesy when we do fix up a date for our daughter's rice ceremony, but if he's unable to make it, I have a brother in Rishi, and he's the only uncle who Medha has come to know. He can do the honours."

"Aren't they supposed to be in mourning anyway?" Debarghya recalled. "Your grandmother passed away just a little over two weeks ago. They will be in mourning for a year. Abhrajeet can not be a part of the ritual in any way."

"I don't care," Mrinalini shrugged. "I honestly do not want my predator of an uncle to even linger near the shadow of our daughter. I have found my footing here without them, Debarghya. My mother has as well. We really do not need to open old wounds. I want my daughter to be safe. From everyone. We need to protect her."

A shiver ran down Mrinalini's spine as she said the words. The memory of her mother's broken spirit, the silent screams echoing in the corridors of her childhood home, was a phantom that haunted her. Her uncle, a spectre of her past, was a predator lurking in the shadows of her consciousness. The thought of him near Medha, even in the periphery of her world, was a nightmare she couldn't fathom. Debarghya, sensing the undercurrent of fear in her voice, reached out and took her hand.

"I know, Mrinal," he said softly. "I understand. We'll keep her safe. We'll always keep her safe." His voice was a balm to her frayed nerves, a promise that resonated with the depth of his love for her and their child. Yet, the fear gnawed at her, a relentless beast that refused to be tamed.

"We won't invite them," she said firmly. "Please."

"You know that isn't possible," Debarghya tried to reason. "You know that my mother is going to insist on doing so, adhering to tradition. She doesn't know everything, Mrinal, and I don't think you'd like everyone to know of it either, would you?"

Mrinalini blinked steadfastly. "I wish I was strong enough to tell my aunt or Dadabhai, but Ma made me swear that I won't. She doesn't want anyone to know, and I know it's because she feels shame and disgust and everything else that predators like him ought to. I just don't want him anywhere nearby, Debarghya. Why can't you understand and respect my wishes? I know you are scared and worried for our daughter too."

"I am," he affirmed. "I am a lot more scared for our daughter than I care to admit, Mrinal. Do you really think that you are the only one who overthinks or survives silently dreadful nightmares? I can't imagine anything happening to Medha. I wake up thrice during the night, even when she isn't crying, to check if she's breathing, or she's accidentally tangled herself in the blankets, or if she's choking. I am aware that when you wake up at night, you should do the same. I may not be as expressive as you, but I do feel every ounce of what you do for our child."

"Why can we not put our foot down then?" she retorted. "We have nothing to do with them in our lives. They are miles away across a continent or two. Why do we need to reintroduce them into our lives? I used to be really close to my cousin, Debarghya, but over the years since our marriage, I've learned to be selfish like they were. They married me off and didn't bother to blink an eye. Dadabhai and Jethima stood as silent spectators when they decided that my future didn't deserve an investment of either money or time. Our marriage turned out okay, but there could have been so many possibilities. Honestly, I am glad that we could make things work, but the what-ifs that they never stopped to contemplate hurt so much. I don't want that part of my past to linger anywhere near the family that I have learned to nurture and love. I am done with them. I don't want them anywhere nearby. Period."

Debarghya sighed, pulling his wife's trembling and shaking body into an embrace. He rubbed her back, trying to pacify her as she exhaled heavily, her breath hot against his skin. 

"Please," she whispered, begging, a tear making its way from the corner of her eye into the orifice where her jaw met her neck, disappearing below. 

"Okay, Mrinal," he replied. "We won't invite them, okay?"

...

February 25

Days turned into weeks, and the countdown to Medha's rice ceremony began. The house, once again, was abuzz with activity. Rai, with her characteristic resilience, was the epicentre of the preparations. She was determined to give her granddaughter a ceremony that would be remembered for generations. The grief of losing her lone-standing companion, her mother-in-law, was put at bay as she made her way to planning and helping arrange things. She also forged a bond with her daughter's mother-in-law, Debjani, thus making the two women, both of them bereaved of love and companionship, close acquaintances.

Mrinalini, juggling her research with the demands of motherhood, found herself caught in a whirlwind of emotions. The excitement of planning a joyous occasion for her daughter was tempered by the looming dread of her uncle's potential presence.

 Although Debarghya had been supportive of her decision to exclude her uncle, cousin, and aunt from their lives, even through unnecessary correspondence, Rai had reasoned with her daughter, and an invitation card had been shipped overseas with great reluctance. As the date of the ceremony approached, the anxiety within Mrinalini intensified. She had a nightmare one night, a chilling vision of her uncle carrying Medha away. The cold sweat that drenched her body upon waking was a stark reminder of the fear that consumed her. She clung to Debarghya tightly, rousing him from his sleep; his warmth and reassurance were the only things to calm the storm within her.

"What's wrong?" he had asked in a groggy tone, feeling her arms around him, realising that she was trembling. Her body was soaked with perspiration. "Did you have a nightmare again?"

"He was here," she whispered. "He was standing right here. His shadow was falling on Medha. She was crying. She was asleep, but she was crying. What if I hadn't woken up in time?"

"No one's here, Mrinal," he told her gently. "Our daughter's sleeping peacefully in her cot."

"But it was so real," she told him insistently. "I cannot be calm, Debarghya. Can she please sleep next to us tonight? I'll get her baby bed. She will be safe."

"Fine," he sighed, knowing that he won't be able to sleep anymore. The bed they shared was too small for a baby to be in between the two of them. There was barely any space. Being a restless sleeper, he was in constant fear of accidentally injuring their infant daughter, given how delicate she was at her tender age of four and a half months. Although she had started rolling over once in a while, albeit with great effort and determination that seemed beyond her little age, she was still dainty and fragile. 

"She'll be fine, Mrinal," Debarghya told Mrinalini again, reaching out to turn off the bedside light, having arranged for their daughter to sleep in her own cocooned baby bed, complete with a partition and mosquito net, in between on their bed. "Even if your uncle turns up, we won't let him be near Medha alone. He can't do anything to our daughter."

"I don't want his filthy hands to touch my child," Mrinalini stated ferociously. "Dadabhai did mention that he wants to come over, but if my uncle and aunt do end up coming over, they are going to hold my child over my dead body. I don't care if the world thinks I am overreacting."

"Mrinal, we have greater things to worry about," Debarghya interrupted. He was exhausted from the endless discussions that they had previously. "We need to pay the caterers and the decorators in advance. You need to get Medha's outfit altered and rechecked. The guest list is confirmed and good to go. There are so many positives to look forward to and so much work to be done. Why can't you focus there?"

"I am getting her outfit resized tomorrow, and I am aware of the pending tasks, but I am worried too, Debarghya," Mrinalini explained. "It's a gnawing fear that you won't understand. And I have already kept aside some money for the advance payment. Our daughter is going to have the best rice ceremony that we can arrange for her."

"How's your research work going?" he asked, changing the topic abruptly, turning onto his side. Sleep was long forgotten. "Did you get the reference that you were seeking last month?"

"I didn't yet," Mrinalini confided. "I am struggling with everything. Dr Matthews is trying hard to be patient with me, but I don't want him to think that I am taking him and his guidance for granted. I forget things too often, even though I prepare a to-do list. I am not as efficient as I used to be. I don't want to use motherhood as an excuse, but every time I mess up, it's always going to be about my child and my inability to devote equal time and attention to both."

"It's okay to take it easy, Mrinal," Debarghya told her gently. "I am sure your superior understands. Maternity leaves are given for a reason. Our child's yet to complete six months. We have so much more to worry about and look forward to. We need to start thinking of arrangements now for her to be safe at home when you resume work at the C.F.S.L. We have a little over a month now, but we have to chalk everything out. Trust me, your slackened efficiency is just a phase that is inevitable. We have bigger hurdles ahead. Research can be taken at a slower pace, Mrinal, but life can't. You cannot juggle everything together, and you have to prioritise now or, at the very least, allocate time accordingly. We knew it wouldn't be a fun ride when we embarked on the journey. It is a rollercoaster, and we have to be prepared accordingly."

She hummed in response, her eyes looking over lovingly at the sleeping form of her child. The thoughts of the difficulties that lay ahead dissipated into the void at the back of her mind as she looked on, drifting away unexpectedly, drawn into the abyss of bliss and fear, love and hate, and inevitable challenges despite the blessings.

...

March 7

The Annaprashan, the first feeding of solid food to an infant, is a significant ritual in Bengali culture, marking the transition from liquid to solid nourishment. For Mrinalini, it was a culmination of months of preparation, a blend of tradition and modern sensibilities. The house, adorned with fresh flowers and the soft glow of oil lamps, exuded a warmth that mirrored the love they held for their daughter. Debaparna, dressed in a crimson ensemble, looked like a tiny goddess, her chubby cheeks accentuated by the sandalwood bindi. Mrinalini had found a miniature saree, its red hue complementing her daughter's complexion, and adorned her with delicate gold bangles, anklets, and a tiny stud in her newly pierced ears. The decision to pierce her ears early was a nod to tradition, a belief that delaying the process could cause discomfort later. Although it had been a tough decision for Mrinalini to make as a mother, she knew that it would be wise to get through the process as soon as possible. Delaying it would only result in further pain that would be gut-wrenching to see her daughter suffer through.

Mrinalini and Debarghya were dressed in traditional attire, and their joy was evident in their eyes. Guests, a carefully curated list of family and close friends, filled the house with laughter and blessings. The menu, a labour of love for Mrinalini, was a vegetarian spread of Bengali delicacies. On a silver plate that had been gifted by Debjani for her granddaughter's special occasion, there was fragrant rice pulao prepared with mild seasoning, suitable for a baby's palate, and some boiled rice kept aside alongside little silver bowls containing rice pudding, sweets, some soft and chewy cottage cheese curry, lentils, and an assortment of five fried vegetables, as was customary. There was a milk bottle kept ready. She knew that the baby might only consume a morsel or two, but the effort was a reflection of her love and care for her first and only child.

The ceremony commenced with the traditional puja, seeking the blessings of the gods. Then came the most awaited moment. Medha, seated on a decorated stool, was offered a plate with an assortment of items: gold, money, soil, a pen, and a book. It is believed that the infant's choice reveals their future. To everyone's delight, she reached out for the book, pen, and then the gold. A collective gasp followed by applause filled the room. The book and pen, symbols of knowledge and intellect, hinted at a bright academic future. The gold, a harbinger of prosperity, promised a life of abundance.

As Mrinalini prepared the first morsel of rice, her heart swelled with a mix of emotions. She had managed to keep her distance from her uncle, Barun, who had unceremoniously arrived for the occasion along with her cousin, Abhrajeet, during the preparations, but his presence loomed large. Eventually, she made the decision to ask her brother-in-law, Debrishi, to feed Medha the first morsel. The excuse of mourning for Brindadebi, her grandmother, provided a convenient cover, but the truth was, she couldn't bear the thought of her uncle or his family touching her daughter. They had caused her mother and herself enough pain to last a lifetime. She didn't need the fragments of the past creeping into the blissful present that she had conjured for herself that could potentially ruin teh future that she looked forward to.

The ceremony proceeded amidst the usual chaos of a baby. Medha, overwhelmed by the crowd and the unfamiliar surroundings, started to cry. Mrinalini scooped her up, her heart aching at her daughter's distress. The ethereal cradle of motherhood, once a serene image, was now a battlefield, a constant negotiation between love, duty, and fear. Yet, as she held her daughter, safe and warm in her arms, she found a strength she didn't know she possessed.

The Annaprashan was a milestone, a marker of growth and change. It was a day filled with love, hope, and a touch of apprehension. As the festivities wound down, Mrinalini held Medha close, her heart overflowing with gratitude. The journey of motherhood was far from over, but in that moment, as she looked at her daughter, she felt a sense of peace. The ethereal cradle had transformed, becoming a ground of reality, a place where love, fear, and hope coexisted, shaping a mother's heart and a child's destiny.

She would survive the tempests ahead. She could go through long days and hours of tedious work and demanding research as long as her daughter's smile lingered on those tiny lips that were yet to murmur what her heart yearned to hear soon; Mumma.

...

To be continued...

PUBLISHED ON: 12th August 2024

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hi everyone! I hope you are doing well. 

I know that this chapter is perhaps a little shorter than the previous ones, but the journey that has spanned over four years is drawing to an inevitable close. I have so much more to write and share, but each part has its own due and I hope to be able to present them all to you to the best of my ability. 

Today, I complete twenty-two years of my life, and standing at the precipice that I am today, there are so many conflicting emotions, fears, and so much more that are coursing through my psyche each day. Sometimes, I question the reasons that I write. I have neither been through what the characters in this book have nor do I know if what I'm writing is relatable, but I do try.

If I ask myself today, as an only daughter of loving parents who've given me their all, why I am trying to write a story that I believe is real or, at the very least, an accurate reflection of so many people who may live next door? Mrinalini, a story of the girl next door, is my earnest attempt at writing based on observation and collective experience of the little nuances that may be normal but have their own reasons, meanings, and effects in one's world and life. Through this chapter, I have tried to write about the challenges that I know sometimes overwhelm a new mother, often making her give up and hate her child and herself simply because of the inability to stop them from crying. It is a reality that is overlooked and concealed beneath the facade of a blind maternal joy that is so often romanticised and glorified. 

In the world that we live in, each of us has our own way of dealing with life and the choices that we make. Sometimes, it is circumstantial, and sometimes, it is after careful consideration that we choose something for ourselves. Through this story, I have tried to convey a medley of situations that may have been encountered and endured by someone navigating through uncharted waters.

Whether it is a working mother or a woman who chooses to stay at home to care for their child, or if it is a career-driven and ambitious woman who chooses herself over motherhood, they are all exemplary beings and personalities who deserve respect as humans and individuals. What is the norm cannot and shouldn't be the bar that people pass judgment against. Through this story, I wanted to convey the various questions, their answers, deductions, and consequences that often crowd my mind, and I sincerely hope that a part of you can relate to the complexity of thoughts and circumstances that are silenced and suppressed.

Thank you for reading. With each step that I take towards the end of this journey, my heart breaks and comes together all at once. It won't be easy, but I hope that the memories will last and outlive everything inconsequential. At the end, I humbly request you to kindly share your thoughts with me. It helps me write better and convey the stories of the characters in a more comprehensive manner. Please do help me with your thoughts. It would mean the world to me to hear from you.

Please be a little considerate of the grammatical errors that may have been overlooked. I have tried my best to write my best, but things do get a bit lousy at four in the morning. ;p

I promise that the story will be edited once completed. Thanks for being patient and for everything. 

Two more chapters to go...

Thank you for stopping by and staying back.

With love,

Elegiac_Damsel

P.S. Please take care of yourselves. You are loved and deserve the world <3 

P.P.S. Please VOTE, COMMENT, and SHARE if Mrinalini's story has been able to strike a chord. 

P.P.P.S. Do stay back for the remainder of the journey... It's been a long one, but thank you for being the best companions and for not letting me lose myself.