Chapter 7: Mother’s Secrets

Until the night of my thread ceremony, when my mother entered my room holding a small notebook…

The house was quiet, the only sounds the distant barking of dogs and the creak of the swing outside. My mother came in, sari pallu drawn tight, eyes shining. She sat by my bedside, smoothing the creases on her saree, and produced a faded notebook. The pages were yellowed, corners curled from years of use. She spoke with a gravity that made my stomach twist like before an exam result.

Women’s rights, Swami Vivekananda and science, the Three Great Mountains, human dignity, independence and freedom…

She turned the pages, her finger tracing underlined sentences. “You must know about Vivekananda, Jiya? He believed in the strength of women. And science—without it, we are blind.” She talked of the burdens women bore: poverty, ignorance, the heavy chains of custom. The words sounded eerily familiar, echoing lessons from another life, and the room seemed to throb with hidden meaning.

Listening to my mother’s slow narration, my mind suddenly exploded.

My thoughts raced, tumbling over one another. Each phrase was like a secret code, a password that only someone like me would recognise. I felt as if lightning had struck, burning away all doubt.

So many familiar terms made my DNA tingle.

She said things no ordinary mother would dare to utter. My hands grew clammy, my breath shallow. Could it be? Was she also… like me?

I grabbed my mother’s slender hand, eyes brimming with tears, and blurted out, “Odd changes remain unchanged?”

It slipped out before I could stop myself—a phrase I remembered from my old life, a slogan that only someone from my world would know. My heart hammered in my chest, waiting for her response.

I’d already pictured the scene: my mother would finish the next line of the slogan, and we’d embrace, sobbing together.

I imagined us hugging, weeping with joy, finally free to be ourselves. I saw us sharing secrets, planning futures, maybe even fighting for change together. My eyes burned with hope.

I wanted to complain, “Mother, you’ve hidden this from me for so long!”

I almost said it aloud, wanting to scold her for all the lonely years, for making me hide my true self. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, the relief so overwhelming.

If only I’d known we were both from the same hometown, couldn’t we have just chatted freely behind closed doors?

We could have shared stories of the world to come, whispered about science and progress, and maybe even plotted to shake up this sleepy old town. I longed for a companion in this strange journey.