"A Mother's Embrace"

The first time Aarav remembered his mother’s embrace, he was four years old, trembling from a nightmare. The house was silent except for the ticking clock and his muffled sobs. He had dreamt of monsters, of falling, of being left behind. She came, gently wrapping her arms around him, humming a tune he would later recognize as a lullaby from her childhood. He didn’t understand the words, but the warmth and calm they carried never left him.

His mother, Meera, wasn’t a woman of many words. She had never given grand speeches about life or success. Her wisdom came in simpler forms—like the packed lunch that never missed a day, the way she rubbed mustard oil into his scalp every Sunday, or how she stood silently behind him at every school event, clapping softly.

They lived in a modest house on the edge of town. Aarav's father had died in a factory accident when Aarav was just two. Meera, barely in her twenties then, chose not to remarry, though many suggested she should. Instead, she worked—first as a domestic helper, later as a tailor. Her fingers became calloused from hours of stitching, but they remained gentle when they tucked the blanket around Aarav every night.

Aarav didn’t realize the weight of her sacrifices until much later. As a teenager, he often felt embarrassed by their small home, by his mother’s plain sarees, by the lunchboxes filled with the same potato curry and roti. He’d see classmates arrive in cars, carrying branded backpacks, and feel a pang of resentment. Meera never asked him why he grew quiet during those years. She simply stayed close, hovering like a steady flame in a dark room.

One winter, when Aarav was fifteen, he fell terribly ill. Pneumonia. For days, he lay feverish and restless. Meera didn’t sleep—she sat beside him, wiping his forehead, feeding him spoonfuls of warm broth, whispering stories of gods and warriors. When he finally awoke clearly, weak but alert, she was there, her head resting on the edge of his bed, eyes swollen from exhaustion but smiling.

It was in college that things began to change. Aarav earned a scholarship, moved to the city, and slowly built a world far from the narrow lanes of his hometown. He called Meera once a week, sometimes less, always promising to visit but never quite finding the time. She never complained.

Years passed. Aarav got a job, then promotions, then a car, a house, a life filled with dinner meetings and deadlines. Through it all, Meera remained the same. Every festival, she sent him a box filled with homemade sweets and a handwritten letter. Her handwriting had started to shake, but her words were steady: Eat well. Sleep more. I’m proud of you.

One day, in the middle of a meeting, he got a call from a neighbor. Meera had fallen. A minor stroke, the doctors said. She was stable, but weak.

The guilt hit him like a wave.

He flew home the next morning, walking into a house that seemed smaller than he remembered. The walls had faded, the stitching machine was covered in dust. And in the middle of it all, lay Meera—frail, smiling, eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“You came,” she whispered, reaching out.

He knelt beside her, overwhelmed by memories—the oil massages, the warm rotis, the lullabies, the embrace in the dark. Everything he was, everything he had become, was woven from her strength.

“I’m sorry I stayed away,” he said, voice cracking.

She touched his cheek. “You did well, beta. That’s all I ever wanted.”

He stayed by her side for two weeks, relearning rhythms he had forgotten—the sound of birds in the morning, the hum of the sewing machine when she used to work, the peace of shared silence. He promised to return more often. This time, he kept that promise.

Meera never asked for much. When she passed away three years later, the only thing she left behind was a diary—pages filled with thoughts never spoken. In it, Aarav found entries written across decades.

“Aarav’s first day at school. He didn’t cry. I did.”
“Got a raise. Bought him a new book. He finished it in one night.”
“He didn’t look back when he boarded the bus. He’s growing.”
“I miss him.”

The last entry read: “I hope he knows. Even in silence, I’ve always been with him.”

Aarav closed the diary with trembling hands.

Today, years later, Aarav is a father himself. Sometimes, when his own daughter wakes up from a nightmare, he hums the same lullaby his mother once did. He doesn’t know all the words, but the warmth remains.

In the quiet of night, when the world fades, he often feels it again—her presence, her strength.

A mother’s embrace never really ends.