A Letter to Mother

A Letter to Mother

Written with Tears, Sealed with Love

The clock ticked slowly in the dimly lit room, but Aarif wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were fixed on a blank sheet of paper, the pen resting in his hand trembling slightly. The city outside roared with its usual noise—cars honking, people shouting, life rushing forward—but in that small apartment, time seemed to have paused.

He took a deep breath and began to write.

Dear Ammi,

It’s been six months since I left for the city, and not once have I truly felt at home here. They say cities are full of opportunities, full of life. But for me, it's just noise without meaning, movement without purpose. Every day I walk past strangers, each one buried in their own world, and I wonder—does anyone in this crowd know what it means to be missed?

You do.

Back home, even my silence had a place. You could understand my tiredness just by looking at my face. You could feel my joy before I even said a word. Here, I speak, but no one listens—not the way you used to. I laugh, but it doesn’t reach my heart.

Do you remember how you used to call me “mera chhota shehzada”? I never took it seriously. I thought I was too grown up for such names. But now, sitting alone in this cold apartment, I realize how much warmth those little words carried. There was a kingdom in your love—one where I was safe, loved, and never alone.

The food here tastes like cardboard. I tried making daal like you, but it lacked the magic only your hands can give. I miss the smell of your rotis, the way you'd pull my ear gently if I skipped a meal, and the stories you’d tell me over dinner. Every bite of your food carried love, patience, and years of sacrifice.

Baba called last week. His voice cracked when he said you haven’t been keeping well. Why didn’t you tell me, Ammi? You always hide your pain behind a smile. But I can feel it—every missed call, every quiet message—it speaks louder than words.

I know I left in search of a better future, to support you and Baba, to give you all the comforts you never asked for but always deserved. But in doing so, I left behind the biggest comfort of all—you.

Some nights, I wake up missing the sound of your bangles as you prepared sehri. I miss the rustle of your dupatta, the soft hum of your voice as you read duas. The silence here is deafening. It doesn’t have your presence in it.

I often wonder what you’re doing at this exact moment. Are you sitting on the old charpai under the neem tree, sipping chai? Or are you in the kitchen, humming to yourself, your hands busy and heart full? Wherever you are, I hope you know—your son is thinking of you. Every single day.

Ammi, I’m not writing this just to tell you I miss you. I’m writing because I need your strength. The world outside isn’t kind. It judges your clothes, your accent, your past. But the world you built for me was different. It was a world where love was the only language, where even tears had a place on your shoulder.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to come home. Work is tough, and leaves are harder to get. But I promise, the day I walk back into our house, I’ll fall to my knees and kiss your hands—the same hands that held me through every storm.

Until then, please take care of yourself. Don’t skip your medicines. And if the pain in your legs gets worse, go see the doctor—no excuses. I’m sending a little money with this letter. Buy yourself a new shawl—the soft one you once liked at the market.

And keep praying for me, Ammi. Your prayers are the only reason I’ve made it this far.

With all the love my heart can hold,

Your Aarif

He folded the letter slowly, placing it into the envelope like it carried a piece of his soul. A tear fell onto the paper as he sealed it shut.

Outside, the city kept moving. But in one corner of that vast, uncaring place, a son had poured his heart out—hoping, praying, that the one person who mattered most would feel it in her heart.