When my son Rayan got into a fight at school, my husband and I were furious.
But my mother-in-law, Malati, stayed calm. She handed him a pen and said, “If you can’t talk it out, write it out.”
He did—and we learned a boy had mocked him for weeks, calling him “the charity kid.”
Malati told him, “Words are your first weapon. Use those before your fists.”
That night, she started Table Time—thirty minutes of tea and talking, no phones.
Awkward at first, it soon brought us closer.
Rayan began writing poems. One got published. He smiled again.
Then Malati fell ill. Stage 2 lung cancer.
Even through chemo, she joined Table Time until she couldn’t.
Before she passed, she told Rayan, “When I can’t speak, you keep writing.”
After her funeral, he set three cups of tea—and one for her empty chair.
He read:
“She taught me to write before I fought. To speak before I judged. To listen before I left.”
Now, every night, we still ask, “What color was your day?”
Because Malati taught us that healing doesn’t come from punishment—it comes from expression.
