Her nest is empty, but the Wi-Fi’s always on

By Vaishnavi Roy

It starts not with silence but with a different kind of noise – the absence of footsteps that once ran down the hallway, the kitchen no longer humming with the low-frequency chaos of a teenage morning, and the air a bit too still around 4 pm when school used to end.

This quiet is not peace. It’s something more complicated, more unwieldy. And in many Indian homes, it echoes a truth too heavy to name: she is alone, and no one noticed when it happened.

In India, we never really talk about the mother after the child leaves. We celebrate the child’s college admission, their job abroad, their wedding, the new apartment, the photos of birthday parties on Instagram.

But the woman who taught that child how to hold a spoon is now left in a house that suddenly feels two sizes too big.

In a culture that worships mothers, we’re somehow allergic to their loneliness.

To understand the Indian mother is to step into a collectivist culture where a woman’s identity is stitched into the lives of others. She is a caretaker, a cook, a teacher, a silent observer of arguments, and a master negotiator at the dinner table.

Her emotional ecosystem is constructed around the family, like vines around an old banyan tree. But when the tree is gone – or rather, when its branches stretch far away into hostels, marriages and migration – she is left grappling with air.

Empty-nest syndrome, in India, is not always spoken of in psychological terms. It’s dismissed as part of life, or worse, as over-sensitivity. A woman missing her child is nothing new, they say. But this grief – because that’s what it is, a living grief – is not merely about missing someone. It’s about the evaporation of meaning. What do you do when your life’s purpose packs its bags and leaves, not in rebellion but in fulfilment of the very dreams you nurtured for them?

That’s the tragedy. She raised them to fly, and now she doesn’t know how to walk.

And so, she turns to the only window that hasn’t shut on her. The phone screen. The internet. A strange, synthetic kind of companionship that seems to understand her hunger for connection even as it deepens her loneliness.

A 2016 study in the International Journal of Health Sciences and Research observed a rise in internet use among empty-nesters in India, noting how digital platforms increasingly serve as avenues for social interaction and emotional comfort amidst growing isolation.

At first, it’s harmless. A few recipe videos. WhatsApp forwards. Instagram reels of babies learning to walk. Then it becomes a pattern – scrolling at 2 am under a blanket, liking photos of someone else’s daughter’s wedding, leaving comments on strangers’ posts, watching mukbang on mute so her husband doesn’t wake up.

The internet becomes a surrogate child. It never leaves, it never slams doors, it always responds – even if only in likes.

She’s addicted. But we don’t say that word. Because addiction, in our minds, is for men with cigarettes or teenagers with video games. Not for mothers. Not for the woman who never asked for anything except a phone call on Sundays. But her browser history tells a story. She’s Googling how to reduce belly fat. Best Korean moisturisers. Signs your grown-up child misses you. And the most heartbreaking one: How to feel happy again after kids move out.

Reports have shown a notable increase in mobile internet use among Indian women, especially those over 45 – a demographic that saw smartphone ownership leap from 14 percent in 2019 to 25 percent in 2020. But while the digital gender gap may be narrowing, the emotional gap is widening. The tools of connection are there, but what of the contentment?

The Indian mother, once the nucleus of the home, is now orbiting someone else’s universe. She learnt how to use UPI and Instagram filters, but not how to cope with emotional abandonment. She has the gadgets, but not the vocabulary. She doesn’t know how to say, “I feel invisible.”

She doesn’t have the luxury of therapy. Her pain doesn’t fit into 45-minute clinical sessions. It spills, it soaks, it lingers.

A culturally contextualised study of empty nesters in India found that digital communication often becomes a coping mechanism in Indian households where mothers lack structured emotional outlets.

And this is not a niche story. This is everywhere. Tier-1 cities and two-bedroom flats in Bhubaneswar. Punjabi households, Bengali ones, Telugu-speaking grannies on YouTube Live. It’s a quiet epidemic hidden under the veil of progress.

Mothers who were once encyclopaedias of home remedies are now spending hours on Pinterest boards, planning imaginary vacations they’ll never take. Mothers who once rationed food during tough times now binge-watch Korean dramas with subtitles.

The internet, cruelly enough, is both the problem and the painkiller. It deepens the void even as it distracts from it.

The screen glows blue, the same hue as late-night hospital corridors. Comforting, in an eerie way.

And where is the rest of the family in all this? Busy. The son is finalising a deck for a client call in New York. The daughter is trying to balance a toddler and a startup. The husband – if he’s around – is watching the news on mute, occasionally asking where the remote is.

No one is asking the mother where she is.

We like to believe that progress is linear. That when a family rises economically or socially, all its members benefit. But emotional evolution doesn’t follow the same rules. The home might be tiled now, the fridge stocked, the children abroad – but the mother is emotionally homeless.

And it’s not just about nostalgia. It’s about identity.

Who is she now? When her children no longer need her? When the house is too clean? When she wakes up at 6 am by habit but there are no tiffins to pack?

What does usefulness mean in a culture where usefulness defined her existence? She yearns to matter again.

This longing to matter manifests in subtle ways. She posts a blurry photo of a flower from the garden. She updates her WhatsApp status with a quote about mothers. She sends unsolicited links to her children. Sometimes, she picks fights. Not out of anger, but desperation. A quarrel, after all, is proof that she still exists in their lives.

And we, the children, fail to notice. Or we notice, but categorise it as ‘drama’. We send money instead of attention. We fly down for Diwali and return before the diya wax melts.

We are grateful for her sacrifices, but not enough to ask how she’s doing on a Wednesday morning.

This isn’t just a personal story. It’s a national one. A cultural one. Because how a society treats its mothers after their children leave home says everything about its emotional maturity. And right now, we are emotionally stunted.

In the West, the concept of empty-nest syndrome is at least acknowledged. Therapy is common. Retirement hobbies are encouraged. But in India, a mother’s world is her children. And when that world collapses, we call it a phase and move on.

It’s time to call it what it is.

It’s time to ask why our mothers are spending seven hours a day online. Why do they watch strangers on YouTube while eating dinner alone? Why they’re buying things they don’t need, clicking links they don’t understand, forwarding misinformation because they finally feel seen when someone responds.

The digital divide for women persists – but the emotional dependency on these devices is rising faster than we care to measure.

Internet addiction is not a disease of dopamine and algorithms alone. Sometimes, it’s a cry for relevance.

If you’re reading this, maybe it’s time to call your mother. Not just on Sundays. Not just when you’re stuck at the airport or need a recipe. Ask her what she had for lunch. Tell her you miss her even if you don’t know why. Make her feel like she still anchors your world.

Because she does.

And one day, when we become the ones waiting for a call, when the walls feel too quiet, and the light too cold, maybe we’ll understand the weight of her silence.

Maybe by then it’ll be too late.

But maybe, just maybe it won’t.

Because stories like this, whispered through cracked voices and flickering screens, might be the only chance we have left to listen.

And listening, after all, is the beginning of healing.

Even in a home that’s gone quiet.

Especially there.

Vaishnavi Roy is an award-winning author and mental-health advocate based in Delhi. Follow her on Instagram.

Lead image: AI-generated using Grok