Ahana has outgrown her first set of clothes.

These cute little pieces of laundry, and her good two-hour (potentially) nap, hold the credit for the time I have in my hands to type this long thought in a few English alphabets— that is deeply felt, remembered and also looks processed.

Ahana’s first set of clothing had arrived from Pondicherry during my ninth month of pregnancy. These were arranged as part of preparations to welcome our baby—we still didn’t know whether it would be a girl or a boy. In India, the law keeps that a mystery until birth.

There is something tender about preparing in the unknown.

Muslin jablas, soft swaddles, burp cloths, langots—everything was gently put together. The woman who sent these is family to us. More than that, she was a quiet presence through a pregnancy we chose to keep private until the last trimester. Along with the clothes came food for healing—care that extended beyond the baby, and held me too.

While this was a helpful and kind gesture from her, on the other hand, we had also opened our doors to a set of family friends—two ladies whom we have always looked up to as our mothers in the absence of our birth mothers—to visit home and keep me company in the ninth month. Harsh had work outdoors that could not be postponed, and I had to be accompanied.

That same day, we also washed these tiny clothes for the first time. There was something almost ceremonial about it—getting ready, even if we didn’t fully know for whom.

The baby was to arrive in winter, and muslin would, in reality, be too thin a material for that weather—but we still wanted to be neutrally prepared, with a set of comfortable clothing ready.

During this visit, one of them—coming from what I now understand as a conservative, traditional background—said something in passing:

“In our tradition, we don’t buy clothes before the baby is born. We borrow, or use old sarees to make baby clothes.”

And I do see the reasoning.

In the olden days, there must have been a reason why this practice was followed in certain traditions. There would almost always be hand-me-downs available within families. Now, we are in a nuclear family setup, without access to hand-me-downs from other family babies—also knowing that this is my first baby. If it were a second baby, perhaps there would still be an opportunity to not buy new clothes.

But, this one sentence from the conversations of that day—- spoken while looking at the balcony where these tiny clothes were left to dry—that has come back to me today, as I fold them away, now outgrown.

At that time, my focus was elsewhere. I was waiting for Harsh to finish his work and return home. I didn’t want anything more than to be beside him throughout my pregnancy—particularly in those last few days leading up to the due moment. Nothing else held my attention in quite the same way.

And, reflection has its own timing.

It is only now, folding these outgrown clothes, that I find myself revisiting that moment—not for what it was, but for what it could have become.

It doesn’t take much.

A single sentence, at the right (or wrong) moment, can enter a mind already carrying so much.

And pregnancy—especially those days close to birth—is a space of immense vulnerability. A woman carries not just a child, but a silent promise: Let the baby arrive safely. Whatever happens to me… let the baby be safe.

In such a space, thoughts are not just thoughts. They can become weight.

When I think of it now, I feel a certain kind of relief. That the comment passed through me, and did not stay.

But it also leaves me with something else. A question, almost.

How carefully must we guard our inner space in moments of vulnerability?

And how gently must we speak, when we are allowed into someone else’s?

Because boundaries are not always about keeping people out.

Sometimes (and perhaps the most difficult part) it is about not letting certain words settle in.

And perhaps, in some quiet way, my lesson here is—- 

Not every word spoken in a room must be carried forward.

Not every sentence deserves to become someone’s truth.

There is space to hear, and still choose what stays.

Ah, okay 🙂 thank you for reading with me! Soon, this two-hour nap will open up, and we’ll be back to our beautiful wake time—feedings, diaper changes, and singing our way into giggles. 

But.

Wait.

Somewhere in reflecting and writing about this, I found myself thinking—as a mediator—about the nature of questions we ask.

In mediation, we often encourage openness. We invite parties to share, to express, to say what needs to be said. There is a certain kind of vulnerability that enters the room the moment someone begins to speak.

It is not always loud. Sometimes, it sits quietly—like a thought that almost takes root.

I find myself pausing at the delicate balance this “asking questions” requires. Because not every question, even when well-intentioned, lands gently.

Some questions may unknowingly cross an inner boundary. Some may stir a thought that was not ready to be held. And often, this does not happen consciously.

A mediator, in the flow of understanding, may ask a question to clarify or deepen. But to the person receiving it, that very question may feel like an intrusion.

This is where the craft is tested—not just in asking open-ended questions, but in asking safe open-ended questions. Not just in facilitating dialogue, but in sensing what must not be disturbed.

Perhaps mediation is not only about helping people speak. Perhaps it is also about knowing what not to ask, when not to ask, and how gently a question must arrive. :),

Ah… interesting how life teaches. 🙂