A few years ago on a Sydney-Mumbai flight, I noticed a young woman travelling alone with her baby.

A few years ago on a Sydney-Mumbai flight, I noticed a young woman travelling alone with her baby. For most of the journey, the baby wouldn't stop crying...the kind of crying that's relentless and slowly wears everyone down. The mother tried everything...She paced the aisle, up and down...rocked him...whispered to him...kissed his forehead...patted his back. Nothing worked. At one point, I leaned forward and asked quietly: "Would you like me to hold him for a while?" She gave me a tired smile and shook her head. "No, he'll only cry harder. He's scared of strangers." There was quiet resignation in her voice. Occasionally, the baby would fall asleep in the bassinet. And every time he did, the young mother's eyes would close instantly...as though her body had been waiting for permission to shut down. But the moment she drifted off, he would wake up and the cycle would begin all over again. It was a long flight, and by the time we began our descent, she was trying hard not to cry herself. At the arrivals section, I saw her again. Her parents waited, faces lit with excitement, eager to meet their grandchild, possibly for the first time. She placed the baby gently into her mother's arms. Her mother's face softened instantly and she cooed gently to the baby. And then...the young woman turned towards her father. He didn't say anything...just stood there with arms wide open. She flung herself into her father's arms and finally let herself cry...not loudly or dramatically....but with the kind of quiet sobbing that comes when you've been strong for too long, and suddenly don't have to be anymore. I was struck by the tenderness of the moment, and it has stayed with me. We don't stop being daughters when we become mothers. Nim Gholkar, 2026