The Fridays I Never Liked

I was born and raised in Mumbai a city that never sleeps, but in my home, some nights never rested either.

Every Friday and Saturday brought a storm before the monsoon. My dad would return home with an urge to clean. Not just the house but the way we lived, breathed, and behaved. Something or someone would always be wrong. Chaos swept through like clockwork. For me and my sisters, these two days were not part of the weekend. They were part of a weekly saga we wished would skip us.

There was no hiding. No laughter. Only silence, and the sound of things being dragged, voices being raised, and hearts trying not to break.

But even in the thick of it, my mind wandered. Whenever it rained, and in Mumbai, it rains with emotion. I’d curl up with my schoolbooks. Not to study, but to dream.

I remember the textbook pages always showing things I didn’t see around me. A home with a small garden, kids playing on a green field, the sun rising behind trees, setting quietly beyond a hill. It felt like another planet. I’d stare at those drawings, and in my mind, I’d step into them.

In those pages, I had friends who didn’t fight. I had silence, not punishment. I had peace.

Years later, I moved to the UK. And now, three years in, I wake up to that exact image. A home with a green patch in front. Kids playing. Birds singing. The sunrise and sunset telling me time is gentle here.

And yet… something is missing.

The joy I dreamed of? It came true but not the way I imagined. Because I realize now: joy isn’t in the view. It’s in what you feel when you're safe, when you're seen, when your heart isn’t waiting for Friday to pass like a storm.

Sometimes, I stand at my window and smile. Not because I’ve arrived, but because I’ve survived.