Rashmi The door of my home opens without the usual flourish. My daughter Anisha has a habit of making dramatic entrances that usually give an indication of her moods. Throwing the door open meant she was either angry or excited. Slow entrances usually meant she was tired or feeling moody.  I can’t help smiling when I see her fling the bag carelessly on the couch and sit down heavily. At 16, the girl is all legs and curves, tall for her age and having short hair that she keeps stylish with the latest color in trend. This time it contains streaks of red.  “Hi. Should I ask about your day?” I ask her as I sit on the couch beside her. The girl huffs. “I and Karan broke up. It was mutual.” I feel a deep sense of regret. Karan is a good guy, one of those rare teenagers blessed with an impressive sense of maturity and responsibility for his age. I had secretly hoped that Anisha and Karan would end up together.  “That’s sad.” One of the lessons that my daughter has taught me is that the less I speak, the more she opens up to me.  “Yeah. Anyways, I will just freshen up. Karan is coming in half an hour to pick me up. We are going to Chaitanya’s house for group studies.”  I frown. “But you guys broke up, right?” “Yes. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” She looks at me defiantly, expecting me to argue. I raise my palms in peace. “All right. I am leaving for Naani’s home. I will be back by dinner.” She shrugs and goes into her room. Teenagers! What can you do about them, and most importantly, for them? ---@@@--- I love traveling in the metro. There is something very exhilarating about watching your city from an elevated level and gaining a new perspective about it. Being afternoon, the train isn’t crowded. I sit comfortably and watch the sights outside – glimpses of people from all walks of life, going about, doing what they have to. The dreamer in me wants to write about this journey, however unremarkable it might seem. For me, every journey is a lens to watch the world in a new light, be it in an auto, bus, car or train. My gaze falls on a couple sitting in front of me. The girl has laid her head on the guy’s shoulder and both of them are engrossed in watching the mobile. It amuses me that I cannot say whether these two are just friends or something more. They look about Anisha’s age.  I watch them wistfully, feeling that probably I would have done better if I had been born in the present times. Perhaps I would be more confident and independent.  May be I could have the chosen my life-partner rather than my parents choosing for me. If only my father had been more open-minded, if only my mother had stood by me and showed her support…  A series of ‘what-ifs’, that is what life has now come to. Probably this is the aftermath of Anisha’s break-up, or the influence of the couple (?) before me, but I find myself thinking about Monish.  I was in the first year of college. I had enrolled in Science stream, although I wanted to take up Arts. But father made all the decisions and he just filled up the admission form himself, telling me to sign it before he submitted it.  In the month of August, the college celebrated Friendship Day. I shyly observed everyone exchanging chocolates and flowers. I had no intention of participating in the exchange. In a household where I could not even wear the dress of my choice, I was completely assured of the fact that I would not be allowed to mingle with the opposite gender, neither as just friends nor anything more. And yet, the jovial and flirty atmosphere in the college that day made me melancholic.  Just when I assured myself that it was better this way that no one gave me any chocolates or flowers, Monish appeared before me, grinning widely and hiding something behind him.  My heart sank. I knew he was attracted to me but I had not encouraged any kind of interaction between us. He always joined my group of friends but I would stay silent and not utter anything, unless he sought me out, which he did often. I hoped against hope that whatever Monish had brought, was not for me. “Happy Friendship Day!” He said with gusto and held a beautiful bouquet in front of me. Bouquet. Not just one or two flowers…an entire bouquet. Oh Monish! I looked around in despair and met the silent gazes of my friends, all girls who knew about my family. I simply shook my head.  The hurt look on his face stayed with me for many, many years. I give myself a mental shake. There is no point in making a fuss about the past. I get up from my seat as my stop comes. Mother, father and Naani are living in a retirement home for senior citizens. It is a cozy place surrounded by trees and having many parks with benches where people can relax. There is a hall which has been designed to be a place of worship for people of all castes and religions to pray and practice their faith. The colony also contains an ATM, a super-market, a pharma-shop and a clinic that operates 24/7.  The homes inside the colony are cozy cottages that contain a porch and a mini lawn in front of them. My parents live in the third cottage from the entrance.  Father opens the door when I ring the bell. He automatically looks searchingly behind me and then smiles, unsuccessfully trying to hide his disappointment.  He absolutely adores Anisha. When I see their interaction, it always baffles me. Where is the guy who was so strict with me that I actually used to be scared of talking to him!? My father shows a different personality with Anisha. That girl has wrapped him by her little finger right from day one.  “Anisha had to study. I will make sure she comes next time.” I tell him. Every time I see him, I am unpleasantly reminded that he is aging. No matter how much you prepare yourself, it is still extremely difficult to accept the fact that your parents are getting older with the passage of time.  “Okay. Come, your mother… ah, there she is.” Father says as mother comes to the room carrying a glass of lime juice. That’s how she usually greets me. To be honest, the lime juice feels just divine after the scorching heat outside.  “How is Naani?” I ask.  My grandmother is in her early 90s. She has been a formidable figure in my life, someone to look up to and someone who commanded respect. I always feel like a little girl whenever I am with her. Of late, age has been catching up with her and she gets tired very easily, preferring to lie down more than any other activity. “She is okay. She lied down just a few minutes ago.” My mother sits on the coach opposite to me.  Straight spine, thin and long frame and a stern face – she hasn’t changed a bit over the years. I suddenly realize that I have been scared of my parents all my life. While father only had to glare at me to scare me, I have had some beatings from my mother when I was a child. When I look back now, I feel that was so unfair. I was very obedient and easy going even as a child. Then why did my parents feel the need to raise me so strictly??  Or, did I become submissive, obedient and easy going because they were strict?? “I am going out with a friend. He needs some help regarding a legal issue.” My father says. I nod at him as he leaves.  My father never has been for conversations unless he had something to say. When I call him over phone, it makes me laugh. We usually talk about the weather. Anisha enjoys long conversations with him about her studies. “He was really expecting Anisha to come.” My mother says with a smile. “It has been a month since we saw her. How is she?” I feel tempted to inform her about Anisha’s break-up but something tells me that my mother would not have a good opinion about it.  “I will surely bring her next time. She had to study.” “I still feel that pursuing law is not a safe career for her. Try to convince her to take up some other course.” My mother says and I get a glimpse of the anxiety that has been her constant companion all her life.  I remind myself that this is my mother’s way of showing her love. She has always been scared for the people in her life – me, my father, Naani, now Anisha… worrying about us is as natural for her as breathing. “This is what she wants to do. I am sure it will be safe. Father supports her too.” My mother shakes her head. “That man is so different when he is with Anisha. Do you remember how he would often hold her in his arms and make her fall asleep when she was a baby? I doubt he has ever held you like that.” She laughs lightly.  “He is extremely lenient with her.” “Yes. That is how most grandparents are with their grandchildren.” “Was I very troublesome as a kid?” I ask tentatively.  “You? Never! You were so obedient and timid, always happy to blend in the background. One had to actually see you to realize that you were in the room. You liked to be on your own, always with a book in your hand. You never spoke back, always did what we said and never created any issue.” “But then why were you both so strict with me always?” My mother must have seen something in my face, for she hesitates. “We just wanted you to take the right path.” “And did that mean doing whatever you wanted me to? What would have been so wrong about allowing me to live freely?”  SUGANDHA The day that I have dreaded all my life has finally come.  Rashmi is asking the very same questions that I feared she would ask someday.  I dreaded this day, every time my husband disagreed to her every request. I do not remember him having ever agreed to anything that she wanted to do. Knowing his stubborn nature, I couldn’t help her much.  I dreaded this, every time he took decisions for her, not bothering to find out whether that was what she wanted. I dreaded this, mostly because I watched it all silently.  “What is wrong with you today?” I laugh nervously. “Why all these complaints? We did a lot for you, didn’t we? Your father did everything in his power to get you settled in a good life.” The words feel lame to my own ears.  “He did everything. But neither of you bothered to find out what I wanted. You never gave me the freedom to take my own decisions and do what I wished to.” Rashmi looks agitated. I wonder what triggered this.  “Aren’t you happy? You are married to a wonderful person who takes care of the entire family. You have a beautiful and smart child. Financially you have no worries. What more do you want? What could we have done differently?” I ask, ignoring the whisper of my subconscious mind that says that we could have done a lot of things differently. Allow her the freedom to be, to start with.  “Is that all you think I need?” Rashmi shakes her head in frustration. “You know what, I should not have brought this up. You never understood me all those years, and you do not understand me now. Every time I tried to talk with you about allowing me my own choices, you always guilt-tripped me, saying that father is doing a lot for me and I should be only grateful to him and not question his ways. Why did I expect that today would be better?” “Rashmi…” “No, Mother. Leave this be.”  For the first time, I see a different side of Rashmi, a side that would have probably flourished and helped her to achieve anything she wanted to, if only we had allowed her.  She takes deep breaths, her face a mask of despair and regrets. It breaks my heart. ‘Your father did not have it easy.” I begin slowly. “He was brilliant, you know. He was a topper in his studies. He left his home in the village to pursue a course in law. He studied for three of the four years required for completion.” Rashmi looks at me silently. “Just at the beginning of the fourth year, your paternal grandfather passed away. The responsibility of the entire family fell upon your father, even though he had other brothers. Everyone, including your paternal grandmother, moved in with your father. He had to abandon his studies to get a job. He did that without any regrets. I have often heard him say that he would do it all over for his family again. He loved all of us, he still does in his own way.” I pause, feeling sentimental.  “Your father and I hated each other before our marriage, do you know?” I smile at the confused expression on Rashmi’s face. Although she knew that I and her father are distant relatives who got married within the family, she did not know how tumultuous our relationship was in the beginning. “Your father was pompous and arrogant. He was extremely good in his studies while I wasn’t. He used to look down upon me. I used to deliberately rile him up because it infuriated me that he thought me as someone lowly.” “What changed for you? Or, did it change? Are you both happy in your marriage?” Rashmi asks.  How do I tell her that we both were forced to marry each other because our families were extremely poor? Her father had just got a job and had a large family to look after, while my father had passed away when I was just 2 years old. My mother had three kids to look after. My father’s brother, who had a large family of his own, took us under his shelter and care and raised us all together. When the time for my marriage came, there was no choice. Two people of marriageable age from poor families? They do not get much choice. “It changed.” I say with a smile, a smile that I hoped hid all my struggles. “Your father isn’t always the easiest man to be with, but he has a commendable sense of responsibility and loyalty towards his family. He took care of all of us in the best possible way, probably the only way he knew.” Rashmi nods. There is a defeated look on her face today. It tugs at my heart. All this while, I have dreaded her asking me about the way she was raised, because in the back of my mind, I always knew that we weren’t being fair to her. I want to get it all out today, even if it comes at the cost of her hating me. “What would you have had us do differently?” I ask her gently. Rashmi chuckles drily. “Too late to ask, isn’t it? I am 45 years old, Mother. It is not as if I can do anything now to change my past.” She looks around as if she can’t face me. “I remember all the times I had to wear dresses that were approved by father. I remember the times when sleeveless dresses were all the trend and I never got to wear one. I remember the time when father saw me speaking to our neighbour’s boy in the building and strictly forbid me from speaking to boys. There is so much I could not do, Mother. Going out on picnics, wearing dresses of my choice, pursuing the course of studies I really wanted to… most of all, I remember giving up.  After a point, I stopped talking to father or asking anything from him or from you, because I knew the answer to that would be a harsh and resounding NO.” Every word settles in my heart like a huge stone. “Don’t you have any happy memories of us?” I ask her, desperately hoping that Rashmi had her fair share of happiness too. RASHMI My mother seems to age right in front of me. I see desperation and hope in her eyes. I try to remember some happy memories I had with my parents. One memory stands out.  I was probably eight or nine years old. My father dropped me off to school in his scooter, like he always did. But that day, we reached quite late. I could see all the students and teachers assembled at the hall and singing the national anthem. My lips started quivering.  “We are late. Teacher will scold me.” I said, my eyes filling up. My father thoughtfully tapped over his helmet and gestured me to get back on the scooter. He brought me back home. When mother confronted him, he simply shrugged and said, ‘Her teacher would have scolded her’. Another memory surfaces, but this doesn’t make me happy. I was studying in the bedroom when I heard my father come home. He had been on an official trip and returned after a week. I kept studying, not venturing out of the room. After some minutes, my father walked into my room and asked me, an indecipherable expression on his face. ‘Did you know that I had come home?’ When I nodded my head, he didn’t say anything and left the room. Looking back now, I can identify that expression on his face as hurt.  I look at my mother who suddenly looks very old. I remember all those days when she did the entire housework while I spent my time studying or playing with friends. Father used to help her in the household work but neither he nor mother made me do any work.  Another memory surfaces, one that I am not proud about. My father had told his cousin brother to bring some ornaments for me from Dubai. I had completed my education then and my parents had started looking for alliances for my marriage.  That day, father’s cousin came to my home, bringing the ornaments with him. A heavy sense of dread settled in my heart, looking at the ornaments. The prospect of getting married to a stranger terrified me. I did not want to get married. The thought that I could not say this to either my mother or father, riled me up. I felt angry, viciously angry. So when my mother sat beside me and told me to try a gold necklace, I put it on and haughtily told my friend who was sitting beside me to fasten the clasp of the necklace. My mother, with a hurt look on her face, said, ‘I am sitting right beside you. I can do that too.’ I pinch my forehead, all the memories wreaking havoc in my mind. How did it come to this?  I had plans. Simple but good plans. I wished to study, pursue a course that would be related to literature and get married to someone with whom I could connect. Most of all, I just wanted to be able to make my own decisions. Everything turned out to be a colossal failure. And yet, when I look at my mother, I cannot find it in me to be harsh to her, to make her regret everything that she and my father did, or did not.  SUGANDHA Rashmi’s silence is unnerving.  “You know, when you were born, your father was the happiest man in the hospital.” I say in a low voice. “At a time when people lamented the birth of a girl child, your father celebrated it. I wasn’t aware about it but Naani informed me.” She looks at me skeptically, her eyes asking whether this was really something to be proud about. “Do not hold any grudges against your father. I am going to say something which will paint him in a not-so-good light. I only hope that you will understand where he comes from.” I take a deep breath. “Your father isn’t the easiest man to live with. He is egotistical and old-fashioned in his approach towards the society. I remember the time when chudidaars came into trend in the village where I lived. Almost all my friends bought chudidaars, finally letting go of the half-sarees that they usually wore. Around this time, my marriage was fixed with your father. He had two terms and conditions – one, that I should always wear saree and never wear chudidaars or nighties and second, I should not work.” For a second, regrets flash in my mind. I would have loved to work and earn on my own. While I wasn’t educated much, I used to do clerical work in a company before marriage. I had to leave this job, much to my immense disappointment.  “Your father lived in the village for a major part of his life, and all his beliefs have been shaped by his time there. Having lost his father and burdened with immense responsibility, your father’s main priority was his family. You also need to consider the times that we lived in. There were certain codes of conduct that society followed and we did our best to mold you to follow them.” “Even if it came at the cost of my dreams?” Rashmi asks, breaking my heart into a thousand pieces. “We all have had our dreams broken, Rashmi. Your father, I, Naani – we all have lost much. You’ve to understand that our only priority was to keep the family going, to get you married into a good home and to see you settle down happily.” I pause, mentally steeling myself for my next question. “Are you happy with Srikanth?” RASHMI Am I happy with my husband in a marriage of 18 years? Srikanth, like my father, has an unwavering sense of loyalty and responsibility towards my family. He loves Anisha and enjoys a very good rapport with her. In fact, I think he is more of a friend to Anisha than I can ever hope to be. He and I understand and respect each other. The only problem is that we do not love each other. We are bound more by a sense of responsibility than any mutual love. After all these years, our relationship has turned into something like a familiar friendship. At this stage of life, it doesn’t matter much. But the thought of Monish used to haunt me often. I had been attracted to him, although I never acknowledged this even to myself. I have been completely loyal to Srikanth and he, to me. But I can’t help feeling that we both would have been happier if we had married out of love and not due to the pressure from our families. There is no spark between us. We are neither happy nor unhappy. A sense of duty and respect towards each other keeps us bound. “I am happy with my marriage.” I lie and I see my mother’s face relax visibly.  I look around and my gaze falls upon a photo displayed in the living room. The photo features Naani, mother, me and Anisha. Four generations of the same family – a rarity to capture.  I think about Naani’s life. She got married when she was just 13 years old, that too to her own teacher who was a good 15 years elder to her. Naani used to be a brilliant student but her studies got cut short due to her marriage.  By the time Naani turned 23, not only she had three kids, my mother being the eldest, she also lost her husband. Naana’s brother jumped in to save the day and helped Naani raise all her kids. There is only one photo of my Naana, that too a black-and-white one. No marriage photos, no other photos of my Naani with him, no photos of my mother as a child… I mentally shake my head when I realize that my mobile as well as Srikanth’s is filled with every imaginable photo of Anisha.  I think about all the things I could not enjoy in my time. I think about my mother and my father who had a tougher life than me. I think about Naani who stopped attending marriages and every other function once she became a widow, who spent the youthful days of her life in silent mourning and solitude, raising three children.  “None of us have had it easy.” My mother says as she looks at the photograph that I have been eyeing. “And whose fault is that, mother?” I ask her gently, not wishing to reprimand her. I do not hold her responsible for all the choices that I never got. She herself comes from a tough place and I respect her all the more today. I also understand my father better now. Mother sighs. “The fault of our times. We have been cursed to grow up in a not-so-advanced time of life and watch its most advanced phase when it is too late for us.” She looks at me pleadingly. “I am sorry I could not do anything for your freedom. I myself was bound, and I also knew that nothing would ever work with your father. I only wanted you to be happy.” I place my hand on hers. It suddenly dawns on me that I and my mother have never been best friends, but I now understand her better. “I have made many mistakes of my own, Mother. I do not hold anything against you or father. You did your best. I am happy with my life. At least I am no longer where I used to be. It all got easier with the passage of time.” My mother gratefully clasps my hand in her own. We both stare at the picture. On an impulse, I march near to the picture and take a snap of it in my mobile. I feel the urge to display it proudly.  I open my social media page and post the picture. I think for a while about the caption. I look at mother, her spine straight and head held high. I look at Naani in the picture, smiling as if she has been through the worst and finally made it. There’s Anisha, and me. I find the perfect caption – ‘Queens Without Crowns’.