By Nanki Kandhari
At five, Mumma taught me simple words—
"Boy." "Girl." "Bedroom."
"My house, my family."
I repeated them, stumbling, stammering,
memorizing them like an A+ student.
She made me recite them every day,
as if their meanings could slip away overnight.
At ten, my vocabulary grew—
"World family" (Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam).
"Religion." "Wedding."
New words, but did I know their meanings?
By eighteen, I became the Shashi Tharoor of my school,
twisting syllables, wielding language like a sword.
Yet, when I sit with Mumma now, I wonder—
Do words change with time?
Or do we simply learn the truths they hide?
"Boy." "Girl." "Bed." "My room." "Home."
Simple, right?
A boy is a male child,
a girl, a female.
A bed is where dreams and rest both come.
A bedroom—a space to sleep at night.
A house is made of walls,
a home of love.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Now, I hear whispers:
"You're a girl. He's a boy. Keep your distance."
(When did biology become a boundary?)
A bed is no longer just a place to sleep,
and my bedroom—once a fortress of toys and dreams—
now holds a door I must remember to lock.
The world’s a family, they once said,
but families don’t abandon their own.
They don’t build fences in the name of faith.
Now, religion isn’t belief—
it’s a line drawn in blood.
And wedding—
it’s no longer a word.
It’s a crossroads.
A choice between two roads,
one paved with expectations,
the other— unknown.
Mumma still speaks the same words.
But now, I hear them differently.