Dhruv Saxena

I found out by accident.

I’d come home for a long weekend, one of those visits where you land on a Friday night and leave Sunday afternoon and somehow convince yourself that counts. My mother made all my favourite things. Dum aloo, phulkas, that particular dal she makes that I have never once been able to replicate no matter how many times she’s walked me through it. The house smelled exactly like childhood.

At some point on Saturday morning I wandered into the kitchen to find her having chai and a couple of Mom’s Magic biscuits. Just sitting quietly, not watching anything on the phone, just sitting. I asked her what she normally does on Saturday mornings. She smiled and said, “this. This is what I do.”

That sentence didn’t really sit right with me. Because I realised I had no idea what her days actually looked like anymore. I’d been so busy assuming she was fine, busy, even,, that I’d never stopped to picture her actual life after I left.

So I started paying attention. And then I started asking. What I found was equal parts ordinary and quietly heartbreaking.

Here’s what our mothers stop doing when we leave.

1. They stop cooking full meals.

Ofcourse, she still can. But cooking a proper meal for one person feels pointless to her. My mother only packs for Dad and does not even plan her own meal. She just makes do. Leftover rice. A simple tadka dal. Bread and pickle if it’s been a long day. The same woman who used to have three things on the stove simultaneously now eats whatever requires the least effort, because effort needs an audience.

2. They stop watching their favourite shows.

My mother used to watch her serials every evening without fail. When I asked her recently if she still does, she said “sometimes, but it’s not as fun alone.” I hadn’t considered that. That entertainment, for her, had always been a shared activity. Something to discuss, react to, complain about together. Alone, it just feels like noise.

3. They stop keeping the house noisy.

When we were home, there was always sound. The TV, music, our voices, our friends, the general chaos of a life being lived loudly. When we leave, the volume drops. And many of our mothers don’t fill it back up because the quiet, after a while, just becomes normal. Some of them have told me they don’t even notice it anymore. That part is somehow the saddest thing.

4. They stop buying things in their own size.

Groceries, snacks, fruit, everything gets bought in smaller quantities, but somehow the size that gets cut first is always theirs. She’ll buy the good apples for when you visit. She’ll buy the small packet of something she likes because buying the big one feels indulgent for just herself. She shrinks her own consumption so quietly you’d never notice unless you were looking.

5. They stop dressing up on ordinary days.

This one surprised me when my aunt pointed it out. Our mothers, many of them, used to take care of their appearance as a matter of daily habit. A nice saree for no reason. Earrings for a regular Tuesday. After the children leave and the social calendar thins out, the ordinary days stop feeling like they need that effort. So they don’t bother. And nobody notices either way, which is its own small sadness.

6. They stop mentioning things that bother them.

A creaky cupboard. A light that needs changing. Something heavy that needs moving. When we were home, these things got sorted. Now, they make a note to mention it next time you visit, and then they forget, or they decide it’s not worth bringing up, and they just manage. Quietly. The way they manage everything.

7. They stop planning things to look forward to.

Anticipation is its own kind of joy. And for years, our mothers had built-in things to anticipate. Our exams, our results, our coming home for holidays, our next visit. When the visits become infrequent and unpredictable, that forward-looking rhythm gets disrupted. Some of them fill it with other things. Like, grandchildren, kitty parties, trips with friends. But many don’t. Many just wait, without quite calling it waiting.

8. They stop sleeping easily.

This is the one nobody talks about. The particular alertness of a mother. The sleep that was always half-listening for the sound of the door, the habit of not quite switching off, doesn’t just disappear when we leave. For many of them it transforms into a low-grade sleeplessness that they attribute to age and never to loneliness. But it’s both, I think.

Okay, I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty. Honestly, we all left because we were supposed to leave. That’s the whole point of being raised well. You become someone capable of building your own life elsewhere. Our mothers know this. They wanted this.

But knowing something is right doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave a mark.

The good news is that this list isn’t permanent. Every single thing on it can be nudged back into her life with very little effort from us. Cook with her over a video call on a Sunday. Ask her what she’s watching and watch the same thing so you have something to talk about. Tell her to get dressed and take herself out for chai because she deserves a nice Tuesday. Send her something, anything, just so there’s a small thing to look forward to in the post.

She stopped doing these things quietly. We can help her start again. She’s not waiting for a grand gesture. She’s just waiting to feel like she’s still part of the story.