Sudharma delayed the trip home twice.
Once using work.
Once using traffic.
Neither excuse convinced even him.
Eventually his mother herself called one Thursday evening.
“When coming?”
“Next week probably.”
“Hmmm.”
That tone itself meant she already knew something was being avoided.
“Everything okay?” she asked casually after a pause.
“Yeah.”
“You sound like failed politician.”
He smiled faintly.
“Coming Saturday.”
“Good. Your brother also home.”
The call ended there.
Simple.
But Sudharma spent the rest of the evening strangely restless.
His hometown always slowed him down slightly.
Every road carried some previous version of himself:
school uniform,
college bike,
late-night tea stalls,
festival crowds,
family functions.
By the time he reached home Saturday afternoon, the house already smelled of fish curry, agarbatti, and coconut oil — the permanent combination of every long-standing coastal household.
His sister-in-law opened the door first.
“Ayyo finally. Mother already complained three times.”
“Correct only,” his mother shouted from inside immediately. “People remember home only when clothes finish.”
Sudharma smiled despite himself.
The house still functioned exactly the same:
television louder than necessary,
his brother taking office calls from balcony,
children running through rooms as if walls didn’t exist.
For the first few hours, everything stayed ordinary.
Lunch.
Tea.
Local gossip.
Questions about Bengaluru rent prices.
His mother waited.
That itself made him more nervous.
Because she usually never waited.
The conversation finally arrived after dinner.
Not dramatically.
His father had gone upstairs to sleep early.
Children were inside another room watching cartoons at dangerous volume.
His sister-in-law remained in kitchen pretending not to listen.
His mother folded clothes slowly while sitting on the floor mattress near the television.
Without looking up she asked:
“You and Swara?”
Straight.
No buildup.
Sudharma almost laughed from surprise.
“So everyone knows ah?”
“Don’t act smart.”
“Hmmm.”
She folded another saree carefully.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
That was the first moment she looked directly at him.
Long enough for him to understand immediately:
this would not be easy.
Not because she disliked Swara.
That would actually have been simpler.
She knew Swara.
Had heard about her for years.
Had respected the friendship.
Had even spoken to her casually once or twice over phone during old office days.
Which was exactly why this disturbed her more.
“This friendship was fine,” she said quietly. “Marriage is different.”
Sudharma stayed silent.
His mother continued after a moment.
“She already suffered once.”
“Hmmm.”
“Health also.”
“She’s okay now.”
“Now.”
That single word carried every fear underneath it.
His mother finally placed the clothes aside.
“You’re thinking emotionally now.”
“I’ve thought enough.”
“No Sudharma. You’ve decided emotionally.”
The difference mattered to her.
A lot.
He leaned back against the wall slowly.
“She’s not asking anything from anyone.”
“That’s not point.”
“Then what is?”
His mother hesitated briefly before answering.
The hesitation itself hurt him slightly because he realized she was choosing words carefully not to wound him.
“Life already became difficult for her once,” she said softly. “Why should your life also become difficult knowingly?”
There it was.
Not cruelty.
Fear.
Pure maternal fear.
The discussion stretched late into night after that.
Not shouting.
Not melodrama.
Just two people who loved each other refusing to agree.
His mother spoke practically.
Health history.
Future uncertainty.
Social judgment.
Children.
Family questions.
Doctors in extended family had apparently already given opinions nobody asked for.
“Hormonal treatments happened no?” she said quietly. “They’re saying pregnancy itself may become difficult for few years.”
Sudharma rubbed his forehead tiredly.
“She’s not medical file, Amma.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“You think marriage survives only on love?”
The question stayed in the room heavily.
Not because he had no answer.
Because adulthood had already taught him that love alone indeed solved very little practically.
Still—
“She deserves normal life also,” he said finally.
His mother looked at him carefully.
“You’re talking like you’re saving someone.”
That irritated him instantly.
“I’m not saving anybody.”
“Then?”
He answered without thinking this time.
“I just don’t want life without her.”
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that slightly changes rooms afterward.
His mother looked away first.
Toward the television.
Toward nothing.
And for the first time that night, Sudharma realized this conversation was hurting her too.
Not because she wanted control.
Because somewhere she had imagined a safer life for him.
Safer.
Simpler.
Socially easier.
Parents often confused safety with happiness because fear stayed closer to them than possibility.
Later that night Sudharma went upstairs to the terrace.
The town had already gone mostly quiet.
Distant dogs barking.
Occasional bike sounds.
Temple loudspeaker somewhere finishing late prayers.
After few minutes his father joined him carrying two steel tumblers of water.
No dramatic father-son moment followed.
His father stood beside him silently for a while before asking:
“Serious ah?”
“Hmmm.”
“You thought properly?”
“Yes.”
His father nodded once.
Then after a pause:
“Your mother scared.”
“I know.”
“She’s not wrong fully also.”
That irritated Sudharma slightly.
“Whose side are you?”
His father smiled faintly.
“Marriage is not a cricket match.”
Silence settled between them comfortably.
Finally his father said quietly:
“I will support what you decide.”
Relief arrived too quickly inside Sudharma.
Then immediately:
“But…”
Of course.
“But I can’t stand against your mother openly.”
Sudharma looked away toward the dark road beyond their compound wall.
“She has to come there herself,” his father continued. “Otherwise bitterness will remain.”
That was probably true.
Which made everything harder.
The trip ended badly.
Not through fight.
Through exhaustion.
Three days passed without resolution.
His mother became quieter.
Sudharma more stubborn.
Sudharma returned from his hometown more exhausted than angry.
That itself worried Swara.
Usually after difficult family conversations, he reacted somehow:
irritation,
sarcasm,
silence with edge.
This time he simply looked tired.
The kind of tiredness that came when emotion and responsibility pulled from opposite sides continuously.
He reached office late the next morning.
No proper sleep.
Overnight bus.
Back still hurting from bad roads.
Around noon Swara pinged him.
Coffee?
He stared at the message for few seconds before replying:
Five minutes.
They sat near the small filter coffee place which served Kothas Coffee where office people escaped whenever cafeteria became unbearable.
The afternoon crowd had reduced already.
Steel tumblers clinked continuously somewhere behind them.
Rain clouds hung low over the road outside.
Swara noticed immediately he had barely touched the coffee.
“How bad?”
Sudharma leaned back tiredly.
“Hmmm.”
“That bad ah?”
He gave a faint humourless smile.
“Amma upgraded from emotional blackmail to silence.”
Swara looked down briefly at the table.
That hurt more.
Both of them knew it.
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
He rubbed his forehead slowly.
“She listened. Then stopped talking properly.”
“Appa?”
“Holding both sides and suffering.”
Swara nodded quietly.
For some time neither spoke.
Traffic sounds drifted in from outside.
Someone nearby argued loudly about miscalculation in their bill.
Ordinary afternoon noise.
Eventually Swara asked softly:
“You regretting this?”
Sudharma looked at her immediately.
“No.”
“Think properly and answer.”
“I already did.”
She remained quiet for few moments after that.
Then carefully:
“If this becomes too much…”
He said nothing.
“I don’t want your house breaking because of me re.”
The sentence came out tired more than emotional.
Honest.
Scared.
Practical.
Swara kept turning the steel tumbler slowly between her fingers while speaking.
“We knew convincing would be difficult. But this level…”
Sudharma watched her silently.
“You and your Amma…” she continued softly. “I don’t want one day you should feel you lost that because of me.”
No sacrifice inside the words.
No nobility.
Only fear spoken carefully.
For few seconds Sudharma simply stared outside toward slow-moving traffic.
Then he said quietly:
“Conflict means conflict only. Not end.”
Swara did not interrupt.
“It’s too early to decide disaster.”
“She’s hurt.”
“I know.”
“She may never fully agree.”
“Maybe.”
The honesty made the conversation heavier.
Still he continued calmly:
“But I didn’t accidentally land here Swara.”
For the first time since sitting down, she looked at him properly.
“I chose this,” he said simply.
Swara lowered her eyes again after that.
Something inside her relaxed slightly.
Before either spoke again, Sudharma’s phone vibrated sharply across the table.
His sister-in-law.
At that hour, unusual.
He answered immediately.
“Haan?”
The change in his expression happened slowly first.
Then instantly.
“What?”
Swara straightened unconsciously.
From the other side his sister-in-law’s voice sounded panicked even through weak speaker leakage.
His mother had left home sometime after lunch.
Nobody knew where she went.
Phone unreachable.
No message.
Sudharma stood up immediately.
“When?”
He listened silently for several seconds.
Then suddenly asked:
“Did anyone check Chikki’s place?”
Pause.
“No no. Don’t call everyone yet. I’ll check.”
He disconnected and immediately dialed another number.
The regular auto driver from their hometown.
Swara watched him carefully now without interrupting.
“Halli side hogidra ivathu? (By any chance Did you go to village today?)” he asked quickly.
The answer came within seconds.
Yes.
He had dropped his mother at Chikki’s house around evening.
Sudharma exhaled for what felt like first time since the call began.
Not relief exactly.
But direction.
“She’s at Chikki’s place,” he muttered finally.
Swara sighed and nodded once.
No unnecessary questions.
“What now?” she asked practically.
“Need to go tonight.”
“Hmmm.”
He was already mentally elsewhere now.
Calculating buses.
Calls.
Conversations waiting.
Swara understood that look.
“Don’t fight emotionally”, she said quietly.
He looked at her briefly.
“You’re already tired.”
“She walked out of the house.”
“I know.”
“And everyone there will also be emotional now.”
Sudharma pressed fingers against his eyes briefly.
For few seconds he suddenly looked much older.
Swara softened her voice.
“Go. Listen first.”
He nodded faintly.
“Eat something before bus.”
“Hmmm.”
“And call once you reach.”
Again the same nod.
Then after brief silence she added softly:
“This may become little worse before it becomes okay.”
Neither of them said:
What if it never becomes okay?
Some fears remained too dangerous to speak aloud.
The bus left Bengaluru close to midnight.
Rain hit occasionally against the glass while highway lights moved past in broken intervals.
Most passengers slept awkwardly already.
Sudharma remained awake staring outside until his phone vibrated softly.
Swara.
“You boarded?”
“Hmmm.”
“Crowded?”
“Not much.”
Weak signal crackled briefly through the line.
For few seconds neither spoke.
Only bus sounds filled the silence:
engine vibration,
someone snoring nearby,
old Kannada song “Ellelli Nodali… Ninnanne Kaanuve” leaking faintly from driver’s cabin.
“You ate?”
“Biscuit.”
“Very healthy.”
That finally made him smile faintly.
Outside, darkness stretched endlessly beyond highway reflectors.
“What you thinking?” Swara asked after some time.
Sudharma took a while answering.
“Amma never left home like this before.”
“Hmmm.”
“She must’ve felt cornered.”
Swara remained silent.
Because agreeing too quickly would hurt.
Disagreeing would also hurt.
Finally she said softly:
“Tomorrow don’t try solving everything in one conversation.”
He leaned back against the seat tiredly.
“Everyone expecting answer immediately.”
“You also don’t have answer immediately.”
Signal dropped for few seconds.
Her voice returned midway through static.
“…Sudharma?”
“Haan.”
“Whatever happens tomorrow… don’t stand alone against everyone.”
The sentence stayed with him.
Not because it sounded dramatic.
Because she understood exactly how he functioned under pressure.
He inhaled slowly.
“Hmmm.”
“And don’t say extreme things emotionally.”
Now he laughed softly under his breath.
“You know me too well.”
“Yes unfortunately.”
The bus slowed near toll gate lights.
Somewhere ahead, dawn still remained hours away.
Neither of them knew what waited after he reached hometown:
anger,
silence,
emotional collapse,
or compromise.
But through weak signal,
highway darkness,
and exhausted conversation,
both kept trying quietly to hold steadiness for the other without promising certainty they themselves did not possess.
Shanbhogue Publications 
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