Numb

By Vandana Rao

The maid didn’t come today.

Again.

You curse under your breath,

then wipe the floor

like your mother used to—

knees cracking, back aching,

phone buzzing with your boss’s “gentle” reminder.

You pour milk into your kid’s bottle

and coffee into your own bitterness.

Scroll through a reel of someone’s Europe trip.

Smile.

Then open your Google Sheet

and drown.

Life now is a to-do list

with no checkbox for rest.

You cry in the shower

so no one calls it drama.

You laugh in meetings

so no one calls it weak.

You fake fine

like it’s your second language.

In this country—

the AC hums in one room,

the inverter dies in another.

Your father doesn’t believe in depression.

Your mother won’t say it out loud,

but she hasn’t slept in weeks.

You pay for therapy

but lie in it.

Because even healing

has deadlines.

You're 35,

still living with the dreams you had at 20.

Only now they have stretch marks,

like your ambition after childbirth.

And love?

It’s someone who texts “reached?”

but forgets your silence.

At night,

you scroll until your thumb goes numb.

Watch influencers tell you

how to be grateful.

So you thank the universe,

quietly,

even when it feels like it forgot your name.

Your friend just got laid off.

Another’s getting divorced.

You don’t say much.

Everyone’s tired.

Everyone’s surviving.

No one wants to go first with the truth.

We don’t talk about it.

We just keep going.

With eye bags and EMI notices,

with mouthfuls of rage we never spit out,

with a prayer for power backup

and a hope that our kids

don’t end up

as numb

as we have.

This is life now.

Soft suicides in silence.

Hope reheated like leftovers.

And the heavy truth

we carry in our chests

but never

ever

say out loud.

By Vandana Rao