Madam is Tired: The Tragedy of Bengaluru's Sofa Queens
- Madhukar Dama
- 5 hours ago
- 5 min read
1. THE RESUME OF A QUEEN-IN-WAITING
She had a master’s degree in biochemistry.
She never used it.
Her ambition?
To marry a man with money.
Not too rich — that would mean relatives crawling.
Not too poor — that would mean cooking.
Just rich enough to afford a maid, makeup, and monthly shopping.
She was never lazy before marriage.
Oh no — before marriage she was active, involved, “homely but modern.”
She would serve coffee with fake modesty to groom’s parents,
Quote a couple of PubMed facts about folic acid,
And then retreat to her room to rehearse emotional lines like,
“I’ll support his dreams like mine don’t matter.”
Spoiler: she never had any.
Her favourite sentence at 24 was:
“After marriage, I’ll take care of everything.”
Her favourite sentence at 34?
“I’m tired.”
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2. THE MAN WHO LIVED
Dr. Raghav ran a humble clinic in Rajajinagar.
He earned 4 lakhs a month, cured colds, ulcers, egos.
He was the kind of man who came home tired but smiled.
The kind of husband society praises,
But never asks,
“How are you really?”
He fell for her docile charm, science degree, and virgin smile.
Everyone said she was a "perfect match" —
Because she said nothing.
She never disagreed, never interrupted.
Red flag?
No, in Indian families, that's the greenest flag.
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3. THE MARRIAGE TRAP
In the first six months, she played the role well:
Woke up with him.
Made green tea (with sugar).
Kept track of his clinic lunchbox (once a week).
Even asked about his patients (briefly).
Then one fine Tuesday, after a cousin’s wedding,
she just stopped.
No announcement.
No argument.
Just… stopped.
Stopped waking up early.
Stopped opening windows.
Stopped stepping out — except to shop.
And started becoming tired — permanently.
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4. THE RISE OF SOFA SYNDROME
At 28, she stopped ovulating.
But she never stopped scrolling.
Reels, rituals, relatives —
Her screen time was longer than her sleep time.
Every morning,
Dr. Raghav walked into the living room like a soldier to war —
And found her lying flat on the sofa,
Head tilted, phone glued,
Watching videos about baby names,
While skipping ovulation tests.
She developed:
PCOD
Vitamin D deficiency
Chronic fatigue
Hair loss
Mild depression
Major denial
She blamed:
Hormones
Pollution
His “clinic stress energy”
What she didn’t blame?
Her utter lack of movement.
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5. THE MEDICAL DRAMA SHE ORDERED
They visited 9 gynecologists.
Spent 3 lakhs on fertility treatments.
Had 2 abortions and 1 miscarriage.
The doctor warned her gently:
“You need to walk.”
She nodded.
Went home.
Ordered biriyani.
She refused to take any responsibility.
Her body was betraying her.
Not her choices.
She was a victim of biology, karma, and his “clinic chemicals.”
When relatives came, she dressed up and beamed.
When they left, she wilted into the sofa,
Like a wilted leaf that never knew photosynthesis.
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6. THE HUSBAND’S SLOW DEATH
Raghav began to lose sleep.
Not because of patients — but because of helplessness.
He tried therapy.
Tried talking.
Tried silence.
Tried cooking.
Tried saying “Let’s go for a walk.”
She said, “You think I’m fat?”
He gave her gifts.
She asked for the bill.
He cried once in the bathroom.
She posted a selfie with #blessedlife.
The clinic thrived.
The man inside it died.
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7. THE ONE CHILD WHO CAME
By 35, after enough injections and money drain,
she delivered one baby.
It was a C-section.
And she milked that pain like an inheritance.
She used it to:
Cancel every house chore
Guilt-trip every maid
Blame her weight
Control her husband
She raised the child in front of screens.
Her parenting style?
“Don’t disturb mama, she’s tired.”
Her spiritual outlet?
WhatsApp fasting groups.
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8. THE MOTHER, THE LEACH, THE LIFESTYLE
She now lived on the sofa.
With pillows arranged just right,
AC at 24,
Phone on silent (except for reels),
And a husband who paid the bills —
With his money, mind, and marrow.
She occasionally got up.
Only when:
Her mother visited
Neighbours posted vacation photos
It was Dussehra and she could brag about “mannat”
Dr. Raghav?
He worked.
He came home.
He smiled.
He withered.
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9. THE SOCIAL SHOWCASE
Outside, they were picture perfect.
Doctor husband.
Educated wife.
Happy child.
Inside?
Dead affection.
Silent tension.
Emotional drain.
Nobody saw it.
Nobody wanted to.
In middle-class India,
sofa queens are holy.
And husbands are ATM gods.
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10. THE FINAL SCENE
One day, he collapsed at his clinic.
Exhaustion.
Anxiety.
Low vitamin D —
Irony of the century.
She came to the hospital.
Sat beside him.
Took a selfie.
Captioned it: “Praying for my strength. Life is tough for women.”
The nurses cried.
Not for him.
For how beautifully destruction can smile in saree.
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“MADAM IS TIRED” – PART 2: THE SON WHO SAW IT ALL
1. THE WOMB WAS A WHISPER
He was conceived in clinics,
Carried in chemicals,
Born amidst complaints.
He didn’t arrive out of love.
He arrived out of pressure —
Relatives' nagging, society’s ticking clock,
And a subconscious need to seal the marriage with something louder than silence.
2. HIS FIRST CRY
His first cry echoed off a C-section wall.
But instead of a mother's warm embrace,
He got a selfie.
A photo with filters, posted with hashtags:
3. SCREEN-TIME SOUL
By 1, he was fed with TV remote and Cerelac.
By 3, he was a reel addict.
By 5, he knew every IPL jingle but didn’t know his father’s favourite color.
He never saw his mother move.
He thought lying down all day was normal.
He thought rest was a right, and energy was optional.
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4. HIS ROLE MODELS
His mother was a motivational quote board.
“Self-care is not selfish.”
“Take breaks, life is tough.”
“Eat what you want, love yourself.”
All while living like a luxurious parasite.
His father was a ghost in a doctor’s coat.
Present but distant.
Caring but fading.
In the background like hospital white noise.
The boy watched.
And what children watch, they become.
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5. THE SCHOOL PHASE
He was smart.
But tired — always tired.
Like mother, like mitochondria.
He hated PT.
He faked headaches.
He ate Maggi for breakfast and screen-time for lunch.
The school counsellor called.
Said he was emotionally flat.
Said he lacked expression.
Said he might need therapy.
Madam was offended.
“Are you saying I’m a bad mother?
Do you know how much I’ve suffered?”
Her victimhood was her weapon.
Her son became its first casualty.
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6. TEENAGE TERROR
By 13, the boy was overweight.
Acne.
Lethargy.
Social anxiety.
Gaming addiction.
His father tried.
Said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
The boy said, “You never walked with me before.”
The father wept quietly.
But never confronted her.
He had become too used to dying slowly.
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7. THE SECOND-GENERATION SUFFERER
At 17, the boy had:
Borderline diabetes
Attention issues
Vitamin D deficiency
Fear of effort
No spiritual grounding
No emotional regulation
He didn’t hate his mother.
He simply didn’t see her.
She was always on the sofa,
Or on a call,
Or on Instagram,
Or at some pooja where she was suddenly hyper-energetic.
His father, the only good man he knew,
Was a ghost who smiled.
He began to think:
Maybe this is all there is to life.
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8. THE LOOP CONTINUES
He will marry one day.
Likely a woman just like his mother.
Because familiarity feels like love,
Even if it’s slow death.
And the legacy will continue.
Another sofa.
Another queen.
Another drained man.
Another emotionally disconnected son.
Madam will die one day — but her laziness won’t.
It will live in the spine of every son
Who watched his mother slowly erase ambition, movement, and responsibility — in the name of rest.
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