The Shape of Unwanted Love

The Day She Stopped Being Little

Sitara was six years old when her brother Dev was born.

Until then, her world had been small and certain, revolving around her mother, Rohini. It smelled of coconut oil in her mother’s hair, freshly washed sarees drying in the backyard, and the faint scent of turmeric lingering on her fingers when she fed her with her hands.

She followed Rohini everywhere.

If her mother sat down to cut vegetables, she sat beside her. If clothes were being folded, she folded the smaller ones carefully and waited for praise like it was sunlight.

At six years old, Sitara believed mothers loved their daughters the way the sky held clouds, naturally, endlessly, without effort.

Then her brother arrived.

The house changed almost overnight.

A steel cradle appeared near Rohini’s bed.

Tiny vests and cloth nappies hung near windows. Relatives visited carrying silver tumblers, baby soap, and loud excitement. Every room seemed filled with soft laughter meant for him.

And somewhere in the middle of all that joy, she quietly stopped being little.

She became “the elder one.”

The one expected to understand.

“Sitara, don’t make noise, the baby is sleeping.” “Be responsible.” “You’re a big girl now, Sitara.”

Nobody said these things cruelly. That was the strange part. Childhood wounds rarely arrived dramatically. Sometimes they entered softly, disguised as growing up.

The Funeral Inside a Six-Year-Old Girl

One evening, one of Rohini’s cousins came home to visit.

The house smelled of fresh coffee and talcum powder. Her baby brother was passed from one lap to another while everyone admired his tiny fingers and bright eyes.

“So fair.” “So cute.” “He looks exactly like you, Rohini.”

Rohini stood there glowing with pride.

Then the cousin looked at her mother and asked casually, “Who’s your favorite now, Rohini akka?”

The little girl still remembered the way the woman glanced at her before asking it. A sly half-smile. Almost amused.

Rohini laughed lightly.

“Him, of course. He’s small and cute.”

Everyone laughed.

Sitara stared at the floor tiles because suddenly looking at anyone felt unbearable.

Children do not understand adult humor. They only understand love and the possibility of losing it.

That night, she lay awake beside her grandmother feeling something cold settle quietly inside her.

Nobody noticed the funeral happening inside a six-year-old girl.

Mirrors Under Harsh Light

Teenage years came awkwardly.

Cruelly.

She inherited her father’s hair growth. Thick hair on her arms. Hair above her lips. Tanned skin. Shadows on her face that made mirrors feel hostile.

Every school function became torture. Every prettier girl became proof that she was somehow failing at femininity.

There was a wedding in the family during those years.

One afternoon, Rohini returned from shopping carrying a glossy packet carefully pressed against her side. For once, she looked excited.

“Come try this, Sitara,” she called out.

Inside was a bright rani pink half saree with a silk skirt.

Beautiful.

Too beautiful for someone like her, the girl thought immediately.

Still, she wore it.

She adjusted the skirt nervously and stepped out, her heart beating too fast. Some foolish part of her still wanted her mother to look at her and smile proudly.

Rohini looked up.

Just once.

Her eyes travelled slowly from the girl’s face to her feet.

Then something in her expression hardened.

She sighed loudly, shrugged her shoulders, flung the packet onto the floor and said sharply, “It looks bad.”

Before Sitara could even process the words, her mother walked away.

The room fell silent.

Sitara stood there frozen, staring at the silk pooled near her feet like something discarded.

Years later, she would still think of that moment while getting dressed for functions. While deleting photographs of herself. While adjusting dupattas repeatedly in mirrors.

People think insecurity begins with appearance.

Sometimes it begins with being looked at without kindness.

Learning How to Become Smaller

Growing up after that felt like slowly becoming smaller inside herself.

She learned to laugh before others laughed at her. She learned to reject herself before anyone else could. She learned how to make her existence quieter.

There were years of sadness she could never properly explain.

Years of surviving herself.

Healing did not happen beautifully. There were no grand moments of transformation.

Just small things.

Learning to look into mirrors a little longer. Learning not to apologize constantly. Learning that maybe she deserved tenderness too.

The First Time She Felt Chosen

Then she met him, Dhruv.

The man she would marry.

For the first time in her life, she experienced love that did not make her feel difficult.

Dhruv loved her gently. Completely.

And slowly, parts of her that had lived starved for years began breathing again.

A House Preparing for War

Initially, Rohini seemed happy about the marriage.

Then, as the wedding came closer, something changed.

The house became tense all the time.

If the girl spoke affectionately to her future in-laws, her mother accused her of abandoning her. If wedding shopping went well, she found reasons to fight. Once, in the middle of a crowded street, she stopped speaking to her daughter entirely over a meaningless disagreement and walked ahead while Sitara followed carrying shopping bags with tears burning behind her eyes.

Another time, she created such terrible misunderstandings with the future in-laws that the marriage almost collapsed before it even began.

Sitara remembered sitting alone in her room afterward, shaking.

Wondering if happiness was something life simply did not want her to have.

People often said the days before a wedding were magical for a bride

Hers felt like being trapped inside a house slowly burning down.

Some nights, her mother screamed from another room, “Just wait till we send you away. After that, don’t expect us to visit you or even see your face.”

Sitara would lie awake afterward staring at the ceiling above her, praying for the wedding to happen soon so she could finally leave.

Escape.

What a terrible thing for a daughter to associate with marriage.

Escape Dressed as Marriage

And yet, after everything, she got married.

And life changed for Sitara.

Not perfectly. Not magically.

But softly.

For the first time in over twenty years, she felt loved without conditions.

Her husband’s affection healed parts of her that she thought were beyond repair. She laughed more freely. She stopped feeling guilty for taking up space. She even began liking herself sometimes.

These became her better years.

Love Entering Old Battlefields

What hurt Sitara the most was when Rohini’s behavior towards her slowly began extending towards Dhruv too, simply because she had chosen to marry him.

He had done nothing except love her daughter gently, yet somehow that alone became enough to place him on the wrong side of Rohini’s anger.

Whenever they stayed together as a family, peace rarely lasted long. It would begin with something small. A remark said too sharply. A sentence spoken in front of others that sounded ordinary enough to outsiders, yet carried just enough humiliation to reopen old wounds and haunt her for years.

Like the afternoon Sitara walked into the kitchen to make herself tea.

“There’s barely any water left,” Rohini said loudly in front of the domestic help. “Don’t waste it washing vessels after making tea.”

Sitara quietly put everything back in its place and walked away.

There had been water shortages before. But this time Dhruv had arrived that morning and would be staying the night.

Later she added casually, “Tell him to skip his bath today. Who knows when municipal water will come again.”

What confused her most was that this was not all her mother was.

With the grandchildren, Rohini softened easily. She fed them with affection, played with them, laughed freely. Around them, she seemed almost untouched by the sharpness Sitara had spent a lifetime learning to survive.

But with her daughter, and sometimes with Dhruv too, something restless and unresolved always returned.

Bitterness at the Doorstep of Joy

Peace never survived long where Rohini was concerned.

Even after marriage, her mother found ways to enter her happiest moments and stain them with bitterness.

Pregnancy scans. The births of her children. Hospital stays. Family celebrations.

Every beautiful memory came tied to another painful one.

An argument. A sharp remark. A fight started over nothing.

It was as though calmness itself made her mother restless.

Women Who Carry Pain Like Fire

As she grew older, her health worsened too.

Years of labor bent her posture and weakened her body. Pain made her angrier. Life made her harsher.

And somehow, all her disappointment with the world seemed to collect around Sitara.

“If I recover, it’s only so I can continue serving everyone in this house,” Rohini would snap bitterly.

Sometimes she called Sitara selfish. Sometimes self-obsessed.

And like always, she absorbed every word quietly.

Because daughters raised by emotionally unpredictable mothers become experts at carrying blame that was never theirs.

Coming Home Like a Guest

Then came a time when Sitara became exhausted too.

Marriage, children, responsibilities, emotional labor. Life began swallowing her whole.

She needed rest.

And despite everything, her heart still wanted her mother.

So she went home.

Because no matter how deeply a daughter is hurt, some part of her always believes home will soften one day.

The first few days were pleasant enough.

The familiar sound of vessels in the kitchen. Her children running through rooms, filling the house with joy and laughter. Evenings spent drinking tea together.

Then slowly, the atmosphere changed.

The sighs started first.

Then the muttering.

Then irritation at her presence stretching beyond a few days.

The Four-Day Threshold

One afternoon, she casually mentioned that her husband would come stay for two more days before taking all of them back.

Something in her mother snapped immediately.

“You should have informed me before coming.” “You’re disturbing my treatment.” “I can’t even sleep peacefully because of all of you.”

Sitara sat there stunned.

She had come home longing to feel cared for.

Instead, she felt like an inconvenience occupying borrowed space.

You Never Really Liked Me

Then Rohini looked at her angrily and said, “You never liked me even as a child. After marriage you stayed away for years. Now suddenly you’re here because you have problems.”

The irony hurt so much that Sitara could barely respond.

Because the truth was she stayed away to protect herself.

And still spent years missing her mother.

The Poem She Wrote Before Her Mother Hurt Her Again

Just the previous night, after everyone had slept, she had stayed awake ordering a Mother’s Day gift online.

She had even written a poem for her mother.

Because daughters like her never really stop hoping.

On the eve of Mother’s Day, the cake arrived.

Her children waited till 12 in the night, just to celebrate. They stood nearby giggling while her brother helped arrange everything quietly.

Rohini had no idea. She was just getting to bed.

Sitara walked into her room smiling and gently covered her mother’s eyes with her hands.

“Come,” she whispered.

For one small moment, she felt like a little girl again.

Still trying. Still hoping. Still carrying love carefully toward someone who had never known how to hold it gently.

“Cha, Leave It. I Can Walk.”

As she guided her mother out, Rohini missed a step and hit her toe against the cot.

Immediately she jerked her hand away.

“Cha, leave it. I can walk.”

There was so much irritation in her voice that Sitara’s chest physically hurt.

And suddenly she was six years old again.

Standing in a crowded room while everyone laughed and her mother chose someone else more easily than she had ever chosen her.

The cake sat untouched on the table. The gift waited beside it. Her children looked confused.

And Sitara stood there smiling weakly, pretending her heart had not cracked open all over again.

The Shape of Unwanted Love

That night, after everyone slept, she sat alone for a very long time thinking about love.

About how some people received it easily. And some spent their entire lives offering oceans to people who only knew how to hold cups.

Maybe her mother loved her in the only broken way she knew.

Maybe life hardened her before her daughter was old enough to understand it.

Or maybe some daughters were simply born searching for warmth in places that were never built to hold it.

She did not know.

But she knew this:

Love offered sincerely was never shameful.

Even when it reached the wrong heart.

If There Is Another Lifetime

And somewhere inside her, despite everything, a foolish little hope still survived,

that in another lifetime, the mother and daughter would meet again as softer people.

A mother who knew how to hold love gently. And a daughter who never again confused longing with love.