Motherhood was a symphony, a melody so profound that it resonated with every part of my soul. Holding my son in my arms for the first time, I had a doubt, maybe I might lose myself , lose the person who used to dream of melodies, stage lights, and the veena.
But as the days passed, I discovered something beautiful: I didn’t lose myself. I found a new version of me - a stronger, fuller, and more harmonious version.
Raghav ji had been my anchor in these months. Even as I adjusted to sleepless nights and endless changes, he stood by me, encouraging me to find balance. He would take over with our little one when he saw me staring at my veena, longing to play.
“Why don’t you practice, Jaan? I’ll take care of him,” he would say, his voice filled with understanding.
At first, I hesitated. Guilt gnawed at me every time I thought about leaving my son, even for a few minutes. But Raghav, with his steady love and unwavering support, reminded me that my dreams mattered too.
One afternoon, as the baby slept in his cradle and sunlight streamed through the windows, I finally picked up my veena. My fingers trembled as they touched the strings, but the moment the first note echoed through the room, a sense of peace washed over me.
The music flowed effortlessly, like it had been waiting for me all along. Each note seemed to intertwine with the soft coos of my son, creating a melody I had never heard before. It was as if my music had gained a new depth - a depth that only motherhood could bring.
Raghav walked into the room, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me with a soft smile. “You look like yourself again,” he said, placing the tray down and walking over to me.
I smiled at him, my fingers still dancing on the strings. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” I admitted. “But it feels different now... deeper, more meaningful.”
He sat beside me, his hand resting on mine as I played. “That’s because you’re playing not just for yourself anymore. You’re playing for him, for us.”
I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. Raghav had a way of putting things into perspective, of making me feel seen and understood.
Days turned into weeks, and I found a rhythm that worked for me. I would practice while the baby napped, sometimes humming lullabies I composed on the spot.
In the evenings, Raghav ji would join me, holding our son as I played. It became our little family tradition - a way to connect and unwind after the chaos of the day.
There were moments of doubt, of course. Moments when I wondered if I was being selfish for pursuing my passion while raising a child. But Raghav was always there to remind me that I could be both - a mother and a musician.
“You’re teaching him something important, Aarti,” he told me one evening as we sat together, our son cradled in his arms. “You’re showing him that it’s okay to have dreams and to work for them. That it’s okay to be more than one thing.”
His words stayed with me, giving me the courage to perform again. My first performance after becoming a mother was nerve-wracking. As I sat on the stage, the veena in my lap, I glanced at the audience and saw Raghav holding our son, his eyes filled with pride. That image gave me the strength I needed to play, to pour my heart into the music.
The applause that followed was overwhelming, but it wasn’t just for me - it was for us, for the life we were building together.
As I stepped off the stage, Raghav was the first to meet me, his arms wrapping around me in a tight hug. “You were awesome, jaan,” he whispered, his voice filled with emotion.
Our son gurgled in agreement, making us both laugh. I kissed his tiny forehead, my heart swelling with love.
Motherhood and music were no longer two separate parts of me. They had fused together, creating a harmony that was uniquely mine. And with Raghav by my side, I knew I could face anything that came our way.
That night, as I held my son close and played a soft lullaby on the veena, I realized something profound. Life wasn’t about choosing one path over another. It was about finding a way to walk both paths, hand in hand with the people you love.
And in that moment, surrounded by the gentle hum of the veena and the soft snores of my son, I felt truly complete.
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Raghav’spov:
It was a long day at work, and I couldn't wait to come home to Aarti and our little boy. As I opened the door, the sight of our son, amit - he is three years old now, he was playing with his toys greeted me. His tiny face lit up as soon as he saw me.
“Papaaa!” he squealed, dropping everything and running toward me.
I crouched down, scooping him up into my arms and kissing his chubby cheeks. "Mera shera, kaise ho?" (My lion, how are you?)
“Main accha hoon, papaa,” he replied with his toothy grin.
I set him down gently, and he waddled back to his toys, completely engrossed once again. My gaze shifted to Aarti, who was sitting on the couch with a soft smile on her face, looking radiant as always.
I walked over to her and collapsed onto the couch, resting my head in her lap. Her fingers instinctively began playing with my hair, providing the comfort I desperately needed after a tiring day.
“Mera din bahut vyast tha, Aarti,” I murmured. “Bachhon ka shor, unka homework, aur ek student toh bas kuch zyada hi naughty tha aaj.” (My day was very hectic, Aarti. The kids were noisy, their homework, and one student was just too naughty today.)
She chuckled, her melodic voice soothing me. “Aur tum jaante ho, Raghav ji, aaj maine ek bahut hi mushkil raga practice ki. Mujhe laga ki main nahi kar paungi, par end mein maine kar liya.” (And you know, Raghav ji, today I practiced a very difficult raga. I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it, but in the end, I did it.)
Just as I was about to reply, our amit came rushing toward us. His tiny hands pushed me off her lap.
“Yeh kya badtameezi hai,amit beta?” I asked, frowning at him. (What is this behavior, amit ?)
He ignored me completely and climbed onto Aarti’s lap, placing his head on her chest and wrapping his little arms around her. His voice was firm and possessive.
“Yeh meri mumma hai! Unka godh sirf meri hai!” (This is my mom! Her lap is only mine!)
Aarti burst out laughing, her entire face lighting up with amusement. I sat up, glaring at the little intruder.
“Yeh meri biwi hai, meri pyaari beta, tumhari maa banne se pehle!” I said, crossing my arms. (She’s my wife, my son, before she became your mom!)
But he wasn’t having any of it. He shook his head stubbornly, his tiny eyebrows furrowing. “Yeh meri jaan hai!” (She’s my love!)
I watched, horrified, as he began peppering her face with kisses. Aarti couldn’t stop laughing, her arms wrapping around him affectionately.
“Arre, yeh kya hai? Tum meri biwi ko jaana kyu bula rahe ho? Yeh tumhari maa hai, bas!” I said, offended. (Hey, what is this? Why are you calling my wife 'jaan'? She’s just your mom!)
He looked at me with the kind of sass only a three-year-old could muster. “Main mumma ko jaana tab bulaata hoon jab aap unse choti choti ladte ho, papaa. Unka dil dukhta hai, toh main theek kar deta hoon.” (I call Mom 'jaan' when you have a small fight with her, Dad. It makes her sad, so I fix it.)
Aarti laughed even harder, clutching her stomach. I sat there, stunned into silence. Our son had just won the argument in the most adorable way possible.
I sighed dramatically, leaning back on the couch. “Tumhara beta mujhe hi hara deta hai har baar, Aarti.” (Your son defeats me every single time, Aarti.)
She smiled, pulling both of us into a warm embrace. “Woh beta nahi, Raghav ji, aapka chhota version hai. Aur main dono versions se barabar pyaar karti hoon.” (He’s not just a son, Raghav ji, he’s your little version. And I love both versions equally.)
As I watched my wife and son giggling together, I couldn’t help but smile. Yes, I had lost this battle, but being surrounded by their love, I felt like I had won everything.
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