Generations United by Unseen Labour

From My Mother’s Hearth to Kaushalya’s Story: A Seamless Narrative

My mother, Rani Ji, was the quiet axis around which our world spun. Each day began while the rest of us remained wrapped in slumber. At 6 AM, as the crisp air of Srinagar still hung heavy with sleep, she was already up. My father—our Tatha Ji—would leave early for Ganpatyar Temple, returning by 7. By then, our mother had already entered the heart of the home—the kitchen.

Her daily ritual was sacred. She would first fill and light the kangdis—those cherished

charcoal fire pots that warmed our cold mornings. Then she swept through the house; rooms, kitchen, lobby and the vott—cleansing every corner with devotion, not just for cleanliness, but for care.

Before a single soul stirred, she had already chopped vegetables, washed utensils and started the first round of cooking. The aromas from the kitchen would begin to rise, gently nudging us from sleep. We children, with not a care in the world, would wake leisurely around 8. Still yawning, we’d brush, wash our faces, and call out for tea—our entitlement, we thought.

Within moments, it would arrive—piping hot, perfectly brewed, served with a smile by the busiest woman in the house, who had already completed more work than we would all day. Our breakfasts were always ready on time, each plate filled with love, discipline and tradition.

Only after all of us had eaten, if time permitted, would our mother finally sit down for her own cup of tea—usually around 9 AM, and often in solitude. Her break would last barely a few moments before she was back on her feet, preparing lunch, which would keep her in the kitchen until 2 PM.

I rarely saw my mother sit idle. Her moments of rest were as rare as winter blossoms. Her fingers never stopped moving—kneading dough, chopping vegetables, washing clothes, stirring pots, attending to guests or calming children.

And yet, she never complained. The world outside saw only her smiling face, never the calluses on her palms, nor the quiet fatigue in her eyes. Her sacrifices were unsung, unpaid, and uninterrupted.

As I grew older, I began to see her not just as my mother, but as one of countless women whose lives revolve around the hearth—each day marked by invisible acts of care and sacrifice. I wondered: how many such stories remain untold, their heroines quietly shaping the destinies of families, yet seldom acknowledged?

It was this realisation that inspired me to write ‘Ashes in the Hearth.’ In Kaushalya Pandita’s story, I found echoes of my mother’s life—and the lives of so many women across generations and geographies. Their hands may differ, but their burdens, their hopes and their silent revolutions are the same.

Ashes in the Hearth: From the Kitchen to the Kingdom of Wisdom

In the narrow lanes of old Srinagar, beneath the lattice work of carved wooden windows and whispers of winter wind, an age-old truth plays out every day—unseen, unspoken, yet deeply entrenched in the lives of women.

It’s the quiet burden of housework: repetitive, thankless and invisible. But one family’s story is now gently rewriting this legacy.

Kaushalya Pandita, 74, has spent over five decades running her household.

From the typical age old Daan, chulha of her youth to the gas stove of today, she has never known a day off. Her hands, now lined with age, have cooked thousands of meals, washed countless bartans and clothes, cleaned the house and tended to generations without ever being paid, praised or publicly acknowledged.

Her granddaughter, Ritika, now 24, a management student in Delhi, visited this winter break with her younger cousins Sheetu and Monu, joining their brother. What began as a family visit soon turned into an awakening—across generations.

I watched my dearest Daadi Kaushalaya, working all day, without complaint, Ritika says.

And I realised she had built this home with her sweat and silence. Yet no one called it an achievement.

When Ritika, asked her grandmother about her dreams, Kaushalya quietly replied, “I wanted to be a teacher, but no one asked me”. 

“They said the kitchen was my School, College and the Cooking Rice, Roti-Sabzi and other things without any absentees in this type of Class was my ‘degree’ and an equivalent to a Graduation.”

Ritika’s mother Shanta, now retired from a government school, added her own story. “I juggled classrooms and kitchens for 30 years.” 

“I was told to manage both—because that’s what ‘good women’ do. I was never allowed to be tired.”

The heart of the story unfolded when little Sheetu, just 7, overheard a quarrel between her sister Monu and her brother Sunny.

“Sunny says only girls should clean. But I told him no, Boys can clean too.”However, this innocent protest ignited a powerful conversation in the family. 

For the first time, Kaushalya sat while her grandson Sunny swept the floor and helped with dinner. Shanta smiled through tears. And Ritika documented it all. Not just as a memory, but as part of her MBA thesis titled
“Invisible Hands: A Generational Study on Women’s Unpaid Domestic Labour.”

The Larger Context

This single household reflects what millions of Indian homes endure daily. Women carry the weight of domestic work without acknowledgement. According to time-use surveys, women in India spend over six times more hours on unpaid household labour than men. These tasks, often labelled as “natural” for women, are rooted in centuries of gender norms and economic structures that devalue such work.

Domestic labour remains one of the least recognised forms of contribution, even though it sustains the workforce, supports mental well-being and nurtures future generations. The emotional and cognitive burden of managing homes, called “invisible labour,” is often carried silently—by mothers, wives, daughters and grandmothers.

Yet change begins with recognition. And recognition begins at home.

A Hearth Reignited With Hope

Ritika’s thesis won national recognition. But more importantly, it sparked change in her own home. Her younger cousins now share chores as part of their routine. Kaushalya, once stoic and silent, smiles more. 

Shanta sings again—this time, not just lullabies, but the songs she once buried beneath responsibilities.

Ritika’s message at a recent women’s leadership forum echoed with emotion.

“My grandmother’s hands built a home. My mother balanced work and domestic duty with grace. And my little cousin reminded us that equality is taught—not by laws alone, but by the way we set the dinner table. Let us raise sons who see their fathers cook and daughters who grow up knowing rest is not a privilege—it is a right. Change begins not in conferences, but in kitchens.”

What is the Conclusion?

The tale of the Pandita family may seem simple. But it carries the profound truth that resonates across societies.

A woman’s love should never be measured by how much she sacrifices, but by how much she is respected, supported, and valued.

Let us look inward—into our homes, our habits and our hearts—and ask:

Are we truly sharing the load?

Because equality isn’t only about empowering women to enter boardrooms. It’s about ensuring they are not trapped in kitchens, unseen and unheard.