The Story My Dadi Told Every Day

When I think of school mornings, I remember two things: the weight of my school bag, and the tug of my Dadi’s hands gently braiding my waist-length hair.

Back then, I used to sit cross-legged on the floor, grumbling about how long it took, while she sat behind me on the edge of the bed, her fingers moving with rhythmic precision. Without fail, each day, she would tell me the same story—word for word, with the same pauses, the same expressions.

"Beta, jaise paudhon ko paani nahi doge toh wo nahi ugte, waise hi agar baalon ko tel nahi doge toh wo nahi badhenge."
(If you don’t water plants, they don’t grow. Likewise, if you don’t oil your hair, it won’t grow.)

And just like every day, I would pretend to hear it for the first time.

Truth be told, I never liked oiling my hair. It made my scalp feel greasy, and my hair, sticky and outdated. It wasn’t cool. While she lovingly warmed up coconut oil and massaged my head like it was a sacred ritual, I was already dreaming of college life—freedom from early mornings, strict braids, and most importantly, long hair.

So the day I stepped into college, the first thing I did was get a haircut. Short, sharp, just grazing my chin. It felt rebellious. Liberating. Mine.

But I was scared to go home. I remember wearing a hoodie for a week straight, even in the heat, just to hide my betrayal from Dadi’s eyes. When she eventually noticed, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The silence hung heavy between us. For two days, she didn’t speak to me—and that silence hurt more than any scolding could.

Today, at 26, I find myself obsessing over hair growth serums, oils, and Pinterest hacks to get my old hair back. But it doesn’t grow like it used to. And every time I comb through the strands, I hear her voice again—“Paudhon jaise, baal bhi paalna padte hain.”

Back then, it was just a story. Now, it’s a lesson.

From their world to mine — one story, one lesson at a time.