The television flickered softly in our living room as a Kannada romantic movie played, its scenes bathed in warm, muted hues. My mother, ever vigilant, reached for the remote just as an intimate moment began to unfold. It was a motion I had witnessed countless times – a swift, deliberate act meant to preserve a fragile, unspoken balance in our home.

I was eight, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, cradling a tumbler of filter coffee I was too young to appreciate. My father sat nearby, pretending to read his newspaper but not quite hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips. I noticed my mother’s quickened breath, the faint flush on her cheeks, and something about the scene felt different this time.

“Amma,” I asked, my voice curious and unrestrained, “how do babies actually come?”

Her hand hovered over the remote, the practiced efficiency of her actions suddenly giving way to a pause. She turned to me, her face calm but thoughtful, as though weighing the significance of what I had just asked. For a moment, I thought she might deflect the question, but instead, she set the remote aside and looked directly at me.

“I grew up in a Bangalore much different from yours,” she began, her tone laced with a mix of nostalgia and quiet resignation. “In those days, questions like yours weren’t just rare – they were almost unthinkable. People didn’t talk openly about such things. It was seen as improper, even shameful.”

As she spoke, her voice filled the room with a narrative that felt larger than my question. She painted a picture of a quieter Bangalore, where streets were lined with bookstores instead of cafés, and societal expectations wrapped themselves tightly around people’s lives.

“In my time,” she continued, “sex and relationships were topics you learned about in whispers. You pieced things together from overheard conversations, from hushed giggles at weddings, or through cryptic advice passed down by elders. No one sat down to explain things openly, especially not to children.”

Her voice held no bitterness, just a quiet acknowledgment of how things were. “Respect for elders, family honour– those were the things that mattered most. We didn’t question it; we simply adapted.”

I listened intently, absorbing her words and the world she described. It was so different from my own – a world shaped by the Internet, where information, accurate or otherwise, was always within reach. For her, growing up in Bangalore meant navigating the push and pull of tradition and change. For me, it meant grappling with the rapid evolution of ideas, often clashing with lingering conservatism.

She shifted her tone slightly, now addressing my question with care. “Babies,” she said, “are made when two people love each other deeply and decide to bring something beautiful into the world together. It’s also about understanding how our bodies work and respecting them.”

Her explanation was tender and deliberate, weaving together the biological and the emotional in a way I could understand. But more than the facts, what stayed with me was her willingness to engage. It wasn’t a perfect answer, but it was honest, and that honesty felt like a gift.

As she spoke, I thought about how different our experiences were, yet how deeply they were tied to the same city. Her Bangalore was one of transformation – a city finding its place between the past and the future. My Bangalore was one of acceleration, where conversations about gender, sexuality, and identity were beginning to emerge, albeit with resistance. At eight years old, I wasn’t aware of these shifts; they unfolded quietly in the background of my childhood. Looking back, I see a city deep in conversation, while I had yet to step into its words. 

Our living room, with its familiar smells of coffee and freshly mopped floors, became a microcosm of this evolution. It was here, in the comfort of home, that my mother bridged the gap between her world and mine, offering me not just answers but a way to navigate the complexities of growing up.

In that moment, I understood that the conversation was about more than just where babies come from. It was about connection, about asserting the right to ask questions and receive answers without fear or shame. It was about the right to understand our bodies, to respect them, and to demand that respect from others.

My mother’s openness gave me a profound glimpse into how deeply conversations – or their absence – shape our sense of self. For her, the silence surrounding these topics was a constraint she learned to endure. Yet for me, her courage to break that silence became a cornerstone of self-affirmation.

Reflecting on that moment now, I recognise it as a turning point – not just in my understanding of biology but in my awareness of the importance of sexual and reproductive rights. Growing up with the freedom to ask questions, receive answers, and make informed choices is more than a privilege – it’s a fundamental right.

That conversation with my mother was far from perfect, but it was undeniably brave. It defied generations of silence and acknowledged my right to understand and take ownership of my body.

In many ways, my Bangalore mirrors this transformation – a city where intimate conversations emerge from the shadows of silence, challenging the delicate balance between tradition and progress. Like its urban landscape, shifting from quiet lanes to spaces where old and new architecture coexist, the dialogue about bodies, relationships, and identity evolves incrementally. Each generation pushes against the boundaries inherited from the last.

The living rooms of the city serve as quiet shores, where unspoken rules are slowly absorbed like waves soaking into the sand. Here, a mother’s careful words can form a bridge from past hesitations to present understanding, connecting generations in ways once thought impossible. 

As I step into adulthood, I carry that moment with me – not merely as a memory but as a responsibility. It drives me to ensure that these conversations not only persist, but grow bolder and more inclusive. No one, child or adult, should feel afraid to ask questions or seek answers.

At its core, the right to discuss our bodies, choices, and lives is the right to be fully human. And that, I now see, is the most beautiful creation of all.

Cover Image: Photo by Alireza Zarafshani on Unsplash