Yesterday at 10:47 PM, my phone rang. My sister’s name flashed on the screen.
I picked up smiling, ready for our usual chat. Instead, I heard crying. The quiet kind. The kind where she tries to hide it but her breath keeps catching.
Between sobs, she whispered, “I cannot do this anymore. I am so tired.”
Her husband works abroad. He has not been home in a year. This Ramzan, she is parenting alone. Fasting alone. Cooking alone. Managing everything alone.
She has two children. The older one goes to school. The younger one stays home. Neither fasts. They are too young. But they stay awake. All day. All energy. All noise. All need.
She told me about her day. Sehri at 3:30 AM. Sleep at 5 AM. Child wakes at 7 AM. School rush. Tiffin. Uniform. Tuition. Cooking with a toddler on her hip. Frying while settling fights. Breaking her fast standing at the stove. Eating cold food alone at 10 PM.
Then she said something that broke me.
“I haven’t sat down to eat iftar with my children even once this Ramzan. I am always serving. Always standing. Always last.”
I hung up, heartbroken.
Then I started calling other mothers. Women with different lives. Same exhaustion.
My friend in Mehdipatnam is a school teacher. She spends her day shaping other people’s children. Then she comes home to pack tiffins, check homework, rush to tuitions. “By the time I sit for iftar, my back is screaming. But the children need baths. The bags need packing. So I eat my dates standing and keep moving.”
My cousin in Begumpet works from home. Laptop on one side. Toddler on the other. Meetings interrupted by little hands. Deadlines chased during nap times. “I break my fast at my desk sometimes. Still typing. Still answering. Still going.”
My sister in law in Old City lives in a joint family. She cooks for ten people every day. Her sisters in law have opinions. She serves everyone first. Always. “No one asks how I am. Everyone asks what is for iftar tomorrow.”
My friend in Tolichowki has her husband at home. He works long hours. He comes back exhausted. He eats and sleeps. She manages two children alone. In the same house. With a man who is present but unavailable. “His tiredness shows. Everyone sees he works hard. My tiredness is invisible. It is just what mothers do.”
This is burnout for a mother of toddlers and kids in Ramzan.
Waking before dawn and sleeping long after everyone else. Feeding everyone first and eating whatever is left. Breaking fast standing at the stove because someone needs you. Missing the azaan because the baby is crying. Crying in the kitchen where no one can hear. Answering “I am fine” when you are drowning.
Burnout is invisible because mothers are experts at hiding it.
They smile at iftar gatherings while their feet ache. They serve guests warmly while their backs scream. They do this because they have to. Because if they stop, everything stops.
Here is what I need to say to every mother reading this.
We see you.
We see you serving before you eat. We see you smiling when you want to scream. We see you standing in the kitchen at 10 PM eating cold food alone. We see you answering “I am fine” when you are anything but fine.
You are the heart of this month. You are the reason iftar tables look beautiful. You are the reason children remember Ramzan with warmth. You hold everything together and no one holds you.
So here is what you deserve to hear.
Your exhaustion is real. Your struggle is seen. Your work is sacred. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to ask for help. You are allowed to sit down before the food gets cold.
I pray that this Ramzan, someone serves you first. Just once. I pray that someone washes the dishes so you can rest. I pray that someone holds your child so you can eat warm food. I pray that someone looks at you and says, “Sit. I will do this.”
Because you deserve that.
To every mother in Hyderabad or anywhere round the globe, running from school to tuition to kitchen. To every mother teaching all day and mothering all night. To every mother working from home with a toddler on her lap. To every mother cooking for ten and eating alone. To every mother whose husband is away and whose load is heavy. To every mother whose husband is home but whose load is still hers alone.
You are seen. You are loved. You are enough.
This Ramzan, I am holding you in my duas.
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