When the Roles Quietly Reverse - By Divya Iyer

Written By: Divya Iyer

Category: Essay

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her evocative essay "When the Roles Quietly Reverse," Divya Iyer delves into the profound shifts within familial relationships as roles naturally evolve over time. Participating in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece offers a poignant exploration of aging, love, and the subtle yet powerful transitions that redefine how we care for those who once cared for us. Iyer's reflection captures the essence of life's cyclical nature, drawing readers into a narrative that is both tender and thought-provoking.

About the Work

Divya Iyer's essay presents a heartfelt narrative that beautifully captures the tender transformation of familial roles. Through her vivid portrayal of daily interactions, Iyer weaves a story of subtle grief and profound love. The mood is contemplative, filled with rich imagery that evokes the quiet dignity of everyday moments. Her writing style is introspective, inviting readers to consider the delicate balance of giving and receiving care, and the unspoken bonds that strengthen through shared experiences.

When the roles quietly reverse

Original Submission by Divya Iyer

When the Roles Quietly Reverse

The phone rings a little too early today, and the heart does that familiar lurch before the mind even catches up, is everything alright, before a single word has even been spoken on the other end. It is usually nothing. A forgotten pill, a question about the gas bill, a small complaint about the knee acting up again, the kind of call that would have meant nothing at all a decade ago. But every call carries that half-second of dread now, the kind that did not exist a decade ago, when a parent's voice on the phone meant nothing more than a casual good morning, nothing to brace for. You do not get used to the lurch. You just get faster at recovering from it.

There is a particular kind of grief that has no name, the grief of watching someone who used to move through the world so briskly now needing a hand to get up from a chair. My mother was a working woman in her time too, juggling office hours, a household, and me, with a kind of brisk efficiency that made it look effortless. She was, in every sense of the word, a superwoman, and I grew up believing, for thirty years, that some women simply did not get tired. The same father who once strode ahead on every family outing, impatient with anyone who lagged behind, now needs someone to walk slowly beside him, matching his pace instead of the other way around. Nobody prepares a person for how disorienting it is to become the steady one, the one who remembers, the one who checks, when for so long, that role belonged entirely to them.

My parents live with me now, which means I do not hear about these changes secondhand; I watch them happen, in real time, in the small corners of an ordinary day. Every afternoon my mother carries her cup of coffee from the kitchen to her room, the same short walk she has made a thousand times over the years. And every afternoon now, I notice how the cup trembles a little in her hand, how she walks slower than she did even last year to keep it from spilling. It is such a small thing. Nobody who was not watching for it would notice it. But I am watching for it, and I get undone a little, every single time, this woman who once ran an entire household and a career without breaking stride, now needing both hands and careful steps just to carry her coffee to her room.

Some afternoons I meet her at the kitchen door and take the cup from her hand and walk with her, and we do not speak of it, this new ritual of ours, the handover of eight ounces of coffee and three feet of corridor, and everything those three feet now contain. She hands it over with a small, wry smile that says she knows I have clocked it, and I receive it the way she once received my schoolbag, wordlessly, as if it weighed nothing, when we both know exactly what it weighs.

It is sad in a way that does not announce itself loudly. It shows up in these small moments, a trembling cup, a story repeated twice this week that I let pass without saying so, a question asked a little louder than it needs to be, so she does not have to ask me to repeat myself. It shows up in the new expertise I have acquired: which doctor's number is saved where, which tablet follows which meal, which knee buckles on which kind of stair. I have become, without anyone appointing me, the family's chief operating officer of aging, fluent in a language I never studied and never wanted to learn.

And yet, there is something in this reversal I am learning to hold onto, even on the days it feels like too much. My father now asks my opinion before he decides things, little things, which shirt, which fixed deposit, which route to the temple, and each time he asks, I hear the sound of a baton being passed in a relay nobody announced. My mother now tells me her worries first, before anyone else, the way I once told mine to her, and the trust in that undoes me more than any trembling cup. This is what it means to have loved someone across an entire lifetime: eventually, you get to be for them what they were for you, and there is no greater inheritance than being trusted with the role.

That is not duty. That is love, returned to the hands that first gave it.

The other day my son watched me help his grandmother up from her chair, and afterward he appeared at my elbow and said, very seriously, "Amma, when you are old, I will hold your hand like that." I had to leave the room. Because there it was, three generations in a single afternoon: the hand that held me, the hand I now hold, and the hand already reaching forward. Roles reverse, and then they reverse again, and somewhere in the turning, love keeps its accounts perfectly, generation crediting generation, and never once sending a statement.

Old age is scary, yes, not because it changes them, but because it insists that nothing stays fixed, not even the people who once felt like the ground beneath our feet. The two people who never once let me stumble are the two people I will not let stumble either, not while I am still here to catch them. Some days that thought breaks something in me. Other days, it just feels like a quiet privilege, to give back, while I still can, a fraction of what I was once given so freely.

The phone rang early again this morning. The lurch came, and went. It was my mother, asking which day the gas cylinder booking app renews.

I answered slowly, patiently, loudly enough, twice, and made a note to call her back this evening, just to hear her voice.

Just to hear her voice.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates diverse voices in literature, providing a platform for writers to share their unique perspectives. This esteemed competition invites participants to explore various themes through poetry, essays, and creative writing. With a focus on originality and expression, it continues to foster a community of writers who push the boundaries of literary art.

We extend our gratitude to Divya Iyer for sharing her insightful essay, "When the Roles Quietly Reverse," in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her exploration of love and aging resonates deeply, reminding us of the quiet strength found in familial bonds. Thank you, Divya, for your contribution and for inviting us into this intimate reflection on life's enduring connections.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.