A-TULA

Once, there was a family that lived together and grew together.

Two sons were raised under the same roof, loved equally—but measured constantly. Skin tone, height, marks, abilities—nothing escaped comparison.

Marriage did not end it. It only changed shape.

Gold, beauty, status, respect—quiet questions replaced loud ones: Are we less? Are we enough?

Believing he was behind, one son chased “ahead.”

The joint family thinned into a nuclear one. Open spaces shrank into an apartment. Many plates became four.

Husband and wife worked—not out of greed, but to support each other. They stretched their wings together. Money came. Stability came. A maid came. A nanny came.

Then something else arrived.

The children ran first to the nanny’s arms. She knew their fears, their habits, their favourite colours. The parents did not.

The father was no longer the man of the house—only a partner in a system.

The home felt less like a family and more like a workplace.

Conversations needed appointments. Should I talk now? She must be tired.

Should I speak? He looks exhausted.

Once, skin tones were compared.

Now, parents didn’t know their children’s colours.

They slept on expensive mattresses, yet sleep escaped them.

The salary figures grew taller than buildings.

The roots grew thinner.

The writer does not give answers.

Only a silence.

If this were your home—what would you rebuild first?

The income, or the intimacy?

The comfort, or the connection?

The story ends here.

The solution rests with the reader.