The Silent Battle of the Sandwich Generation

A general conversation among people my age now revolves around parenting — and being empty nesters. Children leave home, and in their wake, they leave aching hearts unused to the sudden silence and emptiness. It’s an act of courage — for both the young adults stepping into their independence and the parents learning to let go.

Soon, both sides adjust. There’s homesickness at times, more calls than before, and a new kind of closeness that distance seems to nurture — one that four walls never could. Independence grows on both ends. Parents begin to rediscover themselves, finding new interests and learning to live fuller lives, doing things they never had time for earlier.

I went through this phase four years ago.

It didn’t begin with my children moving out, though — it began when my parents decided to lead a quieter life in a smaller town, after being loving caregivers to my daughters during their formative years. A few months later, my daughters left home too. Within ten months, I found myself truly alone — a single parent, with no parents or children under my roof.

I had to learn to live again — for myself.

I learnt to cook for one, to enjoy the silence instead of fearing it, to rekindle old passions, and to find meaning in solitude.

And just as I settled into this new rhythm, my daughters began navigating their own challenges — anxiety, peer pressure, and the longing for a mother’s reassurance. Suddenly, I found myself parenting again — but this time, it was different. Tougher. Nothing my earlier experiences had prepared me for.

At the same time, my ageing parents began to need more care and emotional support. I realised I now belonged to what they call the sandwich generation — caught between the needs of adult children and elderly parents.

At this age, exhaustion feels like a second skin. The rain behind my eyes threatens to spill with the slightest worry. The fog in my mind grows thicker than a winter morning. The weight of responsibility feels heavier than ever.

And yet, the demands of work don’t pause. In a world of uncertainty — economic volatility, market instability, and relentless corporate expectations — we are asked to give more, stay sharp, stay relevant.

Between the silent cry of our parents, the unspoken needs of our children, and the loud demands of our workplaces — we are stretched thin, pulled from all sides.

Do corporates even understand this mental war raging inside every mid-fifties employee — the ones who silently bear this cross, every single day?

When the Body Rebels, I Keep Running

Running has been my anchor.

In the dark hours before dawn, when the city still sleeps and even the birds haven’t stirred, I lace my shoes and step out. The quiet is a comfort. My breath, the steady rhythm of my feet, the whisper of the wind through the trees—these are the companions that make me feel alive.

Running has never been about racing. Not anymore. I used to enjoy the energy of events, but the medals, the finish lines, the noise—they no longer call to me. What keeps me moving are the long slow distances, the solitary hours when my mind unravels its worries and I am free.

But the body has its own clock.

And menopause does not ask for permission.

The Slow Unravelling

It began with small betrayals. Nights that stretched sleepless. Mornings when my legs refused to rise with me. Hot flashes, sudden sweats, waves of nausea that left me clutching at air. The brain fog. The migraines. The endless bleeding.

For years, I believed I had built enough strength to endure anything. Strength training, core workouts, cardio—decades of discipline. And maybe they helped. Maybe they softened the blow. But still, menopause arrived like a storm that stripped me bare.

The thirty-kilometre weekend runs that once felt effortless dwindled into painful three-kilometre attempts. Squats that once made me feel powerful now filled me with dread. My own body, once my ally, had turned against me.

The Date

Yet, when the Wipro Bengaluru Marathon opened registrations, I signed up. Not for the medal, not for the crowd, but because I needed a reason to keep going. A date. A promise to myself.

On race day, I woke at 1:00 AM. My body already warned me: this was not the morning for glory. The rest room breaks, too frequent to risk the official course, forced me into another choice.

So, at 3:50 AM, while others gathered at the start line just 6 kms away, I began circling my apartment complex. Round and round. Dark corners. Uneven ground. Small climbs and dips. I stopped to wish the half-marathoners as they set off. Then I returned to my loops.

One hour, pause. Rest room. Return. Another hour, pause. Again and again, until the number quietly added up.

42.2.

No medals. No finish line tape. No cheering crowd. Just the hush of early morning, the rhythm of persistence, and the quiet knowledge that I had endured.

The After

The rest of the day was silence. My body, heavy with fatigue. My home, still and calm. My mind, for once, at peace.

Menopause has not been kind. It has stripped me, tested me, pushed me to the edge of what I thought I could bear. But running has taught me this: the body changes, the mind wavers, but the will—if you hold on to it—can carry you further than you ever imagined.

I do not run for races anymore. I run because it reminds me that I am still here, still alive, still moving forward.

And I will not let menopause pause my life.

The Tides of Chidambarapattinam

 

Chapter 1 — Arrival by the Sea

The bus from Chennai slowed as it entered the final stretch of the East Coast Road. Beyond the cracked windows, the Bay of Bengal shimmered in the late afternoon light, its surface trembling with silver ripples. The air grew heavier, carrying the scent of salt, drying nets, and the faint sweetness of frangipani blossoms.

When the bus finally hissed to a stop, the passengers descended into a street so narrow it seemed to lead directly into the sea. The houses were painted in once- bright colors now softened by decades of sun and monsoon — mint green, dusty rose, pale turquoise. Above them, bougainvillea spilled over whitewashed walls in unruly splashes of pink.

Meera adjusted her sari pleats as her feet touched the warm sand-dusted road. She was in her mid-fifties, with silver beginning to thread through her black hair, which she had tied into a neat bun. She had been a school principal for almost three decades — accustomed to schedules, order, and the responsibility of guiding others. But here, in this unfamiliar coastal town, she was simply another traveler.

A tall, quiet man in a beige kurta stepped off the bus behind her. He carried only one well-worn leather bag, but the way his hand gripped the handle suggested it held something more personal than clothes.

A couple — the man round-faced, the woman graceful in a deep maroon cotton sari — joined them, speaking in low tones. Two older men followed: one with a scholarly air, carrying a notebook tucked under his arm, the other with spectacles slipping down his nose and a battered leather pouch.

Above the group, a wooden sign swung gently in the breeze: The Coral House – Est. 1842.

The letters were faded but proud, carved deep into the plank.

“Is this it?” Meera asked aloud, looking at the sign and the pale-yellow colonial building behind a wrought iron gate.

“It must be,” the quiet man replied, his voice deep but restrained.

Before anyone could knock, the heavy teak door opened. A woman in her seventies stood framed in the doorway, her silver hair coiled into a perfect bun, her eyes alert and sharp.

“Vanakkam,” she greeted, her voice warm but carrying an undercurrent of amusement. “I am Valli, caretaker of this house... and sometimes, the keeper of its secrets.”

Chapter 2 — The Keeper of Keys

Valli stepped aside, and the smell of the house enveloped them — a mixture of sandalwood, the faint tang of sea air, and the unmistakable scent of old wood that had soaked up a century of monsoon rains.

The Coral House was a two-storey colonial bungalow, its thick walls painted a pale yellow that caught the evening sun like honey. The wide verandah wrapped around the front, shaded by slatted shutters that rattled softly in the breeze.

“Mind the step,” Valli said, ushering them inside. Her voice was brisk but not unkind, the sort that suggested she’d been in charge of this place long before the concept of a ‘heritage retreat’ ever existed.

They filed into the foyer, their footsteps muffled by a patterned tile floor worn smooth in the center. On the wall opposite hung a black-and-white photograph: The Coral House in 1910, flanked by Danish officers in crisp white uniforms, and local port workers with bare feet and folded dhotis. The photograph seemed to watch them as they moved.

Valli reached into a small wooden box and produced six heavy brass keys, each on a loop of faded red thread.

“Room 1 — Meera madam,” she said, placing a key in Meera’s palm. “Room 2 — Karthik sir. Room 3 — Arun and Lalitha. Room 4 — Raghavan sir. Room 5 — Venkatesan sir.”

As she handed out the keys, she added with a sideways smile, “The sea never returns what it takes... unless it wants to. Remember that.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, puzzling and oddly unsettling. “Cryptic start to a holiday,” Arun said, breaking the silence.

“Cryptic is better than boring,” Lalitha replied, adjusting her sari pleats with a small, knowing smile.

Valli chuckled. “You’ll see. The Coral House likes to give each guest something — a memory, a meeting, a clue. Sometimes it’s not what they came looking for.”

Chapter 3 — Dinner Under Lantern Light

By the time they gathered on the verandah for dinner, the sky had deepened into indigo. Hurricane lanterns glowed on the long teak table, their light swaying with the breeze. From the kitchen came the aroma of frying vanjaram fish, coconut rice, and tamarind curry so rich that it seemed to hug the air itself.

As they served themselves, conversation began in hesitant starts — strangers learning each other’s rhythms.

Raghavan spoke first, adjusting his spectacles as he spooned rice onto his plate. “Raghavan, retired Railways. I collect old timetables. Trains are like people — they run on time only if someone’s watching.”

That drew a ripple of laughter.

“I’m Meera,” she said when the eyes turned to her. “Principal of a school in Kumbakonam. First vacation in years.”

“Karthik,” the quiet man said simply, his voice low, eyes focused on the glass of water before him. “Publishing work. Mostly... behind the scenes.”

Arun, the round-faced man, gestured to the woman beside him. “Arun and Lalitha. Thirty-five years of marriage. We’ve survived each other this long.”

“Barely,” Lalitha said dryly, and the table laughed again, though Meera thought she saw something shadow-like flicker in her expression.

“Venkatesan,” said the man with the notebook. “History professor. I’m here researching Danish colonial archives. There’s an old rumor about a missing letter from 1942. A love letter, supposedly. The story says it vanished before it was ever read.”

“Ah,” Valli’s voice floated from the kitchen doorway. “Letters have a way of finding the right reader. And the wrong one too.”

Chapter 4 — Echoes of Old Footsteps

The Coral House was never quiet in the way a city apartment is. Even in stillness, there was the slow ticking of an old clock, the distant hiss of the sea beyond the dunes, the occasional creak from somewhere upstairs — as if the house itself shifted in its sleep.

On her second afternoon, Meera wandered into the library — a cool, dim room lined with teak shelves that smelled faintly of dust and mothballs. The books here spanned decades: brittle Tamil novels with faded covers, leather-bound English volumes, and a surprising number of Danish texts, their spines cracked but still proud.

Near the window, in a corner half-shadowed by a shutter, sat a small wooden box. Curiosity tugged at her. She brushed away the light layer of dust and lifted the lid. Inside lay a bundle of papers tied with fraying ribbon.

When she untied it, she found herself holding letters — folded, yellowing, and fragile at the edges. The handwriting was neat, alternating between Tamil and a looping foreign script she couldn’t read.

The Tamil sentences spoke of longing: “I hear the sea and think of you. If the tide allows, we will leave together before the monsoon comes.”

The foreign script, she guessed, must be Danish. The dates on the letters were from 1942.

She carried them to the verandah where Dr. Venkatesan sat, scribbling in his notebook.

“Professor,” she said softly, laying the papers on the table. His eyes widened. “Where did you—?”

“In the library.”

He carefully unfolded one and adjusted his glasses. “This is not just a love letter,” he murmured. “It may explain why a certain Danish officer disappeared from the port records that year.”

The breeze shifted, lifting the edge of one letter as if the sea itself wanted to read along.

Chapter 5 — Shoreline Confessions

The morning sky in Chidambarapattinam looked like it had been washed in milk. Meera woke early, the sound of waves drawing her to the verandah. She spotted Lalitha already outside, her maroon sari gathered up slightly to keep it from dragging in the sand.

“Walk?” Lalitha asked, without turning.

They made their way down the narrow path between the dunes until the beach opened up, pale and endless. Fishermen were already hauling in their morning catch, their voices carrying over the water.

“You know,” Lalitha began, her eyes fixed on the line where sea met sky, “everyone thinks long marriages are built on love. Sometimes they’re built on silence... on the things you don’t say.”

Meera glanced at her. “Silence can be heavy.”

Lalitha smiled faintly. “Or protective.” She paused, the tide rushing in to swallow their footprints. “I had a choice, years ago. I chose what was safe. Sometimes I wonder — was it the right choice, or did I just get used to it?”

The breeze lifted the end of Lalitha’s sari. Meera wanted to ask more, but something in her companion’s face said the moment was enough. They walked the rest of the way in silence, the waves hissing beside them.

Chapter 6 — A Gramophone by the Window

That night, Meera wandered toward the library again. A scratchy melody drifted through the half-open door — a Tamil film song from the late 1970s.

Inside, Karthik sat by the window, cranking the handle of an old gramophone. The record spun, releasing the song’s familiar melancholy refrain.

Meera froze. Her father had hummed that tune on rainy nights when she was a child, before he left one day without a word. Hearing it now was like being pulled backwards through time.

“You know this song?” Karthik asked, noticing her. “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s... part of my life.”

He tilted his head, studying her as if weighing a question. “Funny how music stays when people don’t.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The record crackled, the song fading into silence.

Chapter 7 — Laughter Over Filter Coffee

The following morning, the house filled with noise. Fishermen’s wives had arrived to deliver prawns and gossip. They sat on low stools in the courtyard, shelling prawns with nimble fingers while sipping filter coffee from steel tumblers.

One woman told the story of a meen peiy — a fish spirit — who stole one slipper from the shore and hid it in a fisherman’s net as a warning. Another swore she’d once seen a crab walk away with her mother-in-law’s toe ring.

Even Karthik laughed, the sound surprising everyone, including himself.

Valli, passing by with a basket of vegetables, grinned. “Laughter is good currency here. The sea takes sorrow more willingly if you give it laughter in exchange.”

Chapter 8 — The Lost Letter

In the afternoon, Dr. Venkatesan returned from the archives, his shirt damp with humidity. He spread a sheet of paper on the verandah table — a partial translation of the Danish parts of the letter Meera had found.

“It speaks of meeting under the lighthouse,” he said, “and of fleeing before the authorities intervened. But it ends mid-sentence, as if the writer was interrupted.”

“Where’s the rest?” Arun asked, leaning forward.

“That,” the professor replied, “is the mystery. The archives say nothing more. It’s as if the letter — and perhaps the lovers — vanished into the sea.”

The group sat in silence for a moment, each picturing the unfinished scene.

Chapter 9 — Storm Warnings

By evening, the wind picked up, rattling shutters. Rain began in sudden, heavy sheets, drumming on the roof.

“Power will go in five minutes,” Valli announced cheerfully, lighting extra lamps. “Best you all stay together.”

They gathered in the lounge, the lamplight casting long shadows. Valli suggested a game she called Unmai, Ninaivu — “Truth & Memory.” Each person had to share something they’d never told anyone.

Raghavan went first, admitting he’d once been in love with a fellow railway clerk but had never confessed. Arun spoke of a letter he’d written to Lalitha years ago but never gave her. Lalitha revealed she had almost boarded a train to Delhi once, ticket in hand, intending never to return.

Meera told them of her father at the beach, the day before he disappeared.

Karthik was last. He stared into the lamp flame before saying, “I’ve been coming here for years, waiting for someone who may never return.”

Chapter 10 — The Photograph

Later, when the others had gone to bed, Karthik found Meera in the library. He opened his leather bag and withdrew a photograph — edges curled, colors faded.

A young woman stood on the very beach they’d walked that morning. Her red sari billowed in the wind, her eyes half-hidden by a shy smile.

“She was here in 1978,” Karthik said. “We spoke for hours. She left without saying goodbye. I’ve been coming back ever since, hoping to see her again.”

Meera traced the figure’s outline with her eyes. “And in all these years, nothing?”

“Some tides never go out,” he said quietly.

Chapter 11 — Sunset Stories

The rain passed overnight, leaving the air rinsed and clean. That evening, Arun and Lalitha sat on the verandah, the sunset painting the sea in molten gold.

Arun reached for her hand. “I should have told you years ago — I never regretted marrying you. Not once.”

Lalitha’s fingers tightened around his. “I know,” she said. “We just... forgot to say it.” They watched the horizon until the light faded.

Chapter 12 — The Sea Gives Back

At low tide the next morning, Meera spotted something half-buried where the waves met the sand — a glass bottle, greenish with age. Inside was a rolled, water-stained paper.

Dr. Venkatesan eased the cork out and unrolled the fragile page. It was the missing part of the 1942 letter.

“They didn’t run away,” he read aloud. “She stayed. He left by ship. Yet they wrote of meeting again, someday.”

No one spoke. The waves seemed to hush, listening.

Chapter 13 — Departure Morning

The final day arrived too soon. Bags were packed, rooms emptied. The verandah felt suddenly too big, as if the house itself knew they were leaving.

“Come back when the sea calls you,” Valli said, handing each their key back as a keepsake.

Chapter 14 — The Glance at the Bus Stop

As the bus approached, Karthik froze. His gaze locked on the shoreline.

Meera followed his eyes. A woman in a red sari was walking slowly into the waves. She turned her head slightly, her face unreadable, before the sea closed around her.

“Karthik—” Meera began, but the bus door swung open, breaking the moment.

Chapter 15 — After the Retreat

Weeks later, back in Kumbakonam, Meera found a postcard in her letterbox. No return address.

On it, in neat handwriting, were five words:

Some stories end where the sea begins.

She stood by the window for a long time, the distant echo of waves filling her ears.

Run not taken

 Today I did not run

I went out for a run, but the rains from last night and the lovely fresh air, made me stop and stand still.
And breathe 

and just look around.

I saw
Trees, Green and clean after the downpour
Roads washed and dusted with white and pink flowers
Birds flitting on branches
Number of the train passing by 
Squirrels scurrying across the road
Mix of wet soil and leaves and the mitti smell

People I had only waved and smiled at before while away on the move, now stopped to speak
The school buses and stops with parents which earlier used to bother me as I had to run around the crowds, now brought a smile as I walked by to their chatter
Dog walkers I earlier avoided, now stopped by as the pets playfully jumped around.

At that moment, everything in the world seemed right

Dr Seuss said it right:
"Because when you stop and look around, this life is pretty amazing."

 

Evolution

Gone are the days when suitcases came only in dull greys and blacks.

Step into any airport or railway station today, and it’s a runway of rolling colour. Bold patterns, quirky designs, vibrant hues—our luggage has become a statement, not just a storage solution.

If you grew up in the ’80s, you’ll remember this: the family suitcase. Singular.
One trusty, sturdy companion for every trip—be it a wedding, vacation, or a quick dash to the hometown.
It was often a brown or navy VIP hard case, tough as nails and just as dependable.

Heading off to college in the ’90s? That called for a rite of passage: your very own suitcase.
A special one. A grown-up one.

And those suitcases? They weren’t just for packing—they doubled up as seats on crowded platforms.
The youngest always got dibs.

We marked our suitcases with our names, phone numbers, and full addresses—loud and proud, plastered across the surface.
To tell it apart from the crowd, we tied colourful ribbons to the handle.
A canvas cover made it last longer (and maybe hid the scratches from being loved a little too much).

That one suitcase knew every family holiday, every reunion, every train journey.

The suitcase was a person with their own identity!

At some point—quietly and quickly—the one-for-all suitcase became a thing of the past.

Now, we have occasion-based luggage:
Cabin bags for short hops. Overnighters. Check-in trolleys. Transit bags. Luggage for business. Luggage for vacations. Luggage just because.

And the colours? A spectrum!
Neon greens, sunny yellows, ocean blues—each one chosen, perhaps, to match the mood of the traveller or the destination.

Each family member now wheels their own suitcase.
Sometimes one person brings three—a matching set like the Three Bears from Goldilocks: Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bear.

Then came the designer era.
Stylish logos. Sleek silhouettes. Funky fonts.
Are they originals? Are they knock-offs? Who cares—they look fabulous. Dreams on Wheels

Mokobara makes you want to pack your bag and escape.
Samsonite is still the silent strong type—reliable, global, elite.
And Tumi? The moment you see one, you know the traveller means business.

Airports today aren’t just transit zones—they’re catwalks for carry-ons.
Trolleys tell stories.
Colourful suitcases spin by on carousels like moving art installations.
It’s fashion meets function. Wanderlust meets wishlist.

So next time you're at an airport, pause for a moment.
Don’t just check the departure board—check out the luggage.
It’s a whole world of colour, character, and stories waiting to be wheeled away.

A Bridge Between Then and Now

What does a reunion mean to you?

Is it about reminiscing the good old times—the laughter, the chaos, the friendships that shaped us?

Or is it about building new connections, forging fresh bonds with faces that once were familiar and now feel renewed?

For us, the batch of 1995, this year marked 30 years since we left college.

Thirty years since we stepped out into the world—but even more profoundly, 34 years since we first stepped into each other’s lives.

There’s something about returning to old places.

The past doesn’t just whisper—it hits you in waves.

And so it was, during the two unforgettable days we spent together.

Memories came rushing back:

·       The rundown buildings, still standing with quiet dignity.
·       The hostel corridors, echoing with the sounds of our youth.
·       The taste of familiar food, unchanged and comforting.
·       And of course, the telephone building—our lifeline to home, to parents, to everything we left behind.

The buildings that stood as a silent witness to our shared longing, our tears, and our excitement.

In those two days, we lived a little bit of everything.

We remembered.

We forgot.

We laughed.

We sang.

We reconnected.

We weren’t just looking back—we were also building something forward.

Friendships that paused, now playing again. New bonds formed in old familiarity.

There’s a special kind of magic in a reunion.

It doesn’t just bring back who we were.

It reminds us who we still are—and who we’re becoming.

Here’s to the batch of ’95.

To 34 years of connection.

To memories made, and those yet to be.

The Silence Between Visits

There was a time

I couldn't go a week without seeing you—

your absence, once unthinkable,

now stretches past a month.

Still alive.

Barely,

but still.

Is this what they call ageing wisely?

Learning to breathe

through the hollow?

To walk with the ache

like an old friend who won’t leave?

Or is this nirvana—

not peace, but numbness,

a silence that hums

just loud enough to keep me from screaming?

Maybe I’m just zombied—

heart slow,

steps steady,

eyes dry

from forgetting how to cry.

But I’m still here.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But here.