Mother’s Scarf

The day her mother died, Aaliya stopped wearing colors.

Everything felt grey — the sky, the floor, her thoughts. She moved through days like a ghost, her face blank, her eyes dry. People said time would heal her, but time, she thought, didn’t know what it was missing.

Her mother had been her world — her anchor, her warmth, her morning prayer and bedtime song.

Without her, Aaliya felt cold, even in the sun.

One rainy afternoon, months after the funeral, Aaliya found herself cleaning the attic — not because she wanted to, but because the silence in the house was louder than ever.

She opened the old wooden trunk in the corner. It smelled of time — of dried rose petals, old paper, and fabric.

She sifted through folded shawls, bangles in faded boxes, and then her hand touched something soft and familiar.

It was a deep maroon dupatta, embroidered with gold thread at the edges. Her mother’s favorite.

She brought it to her face, and the scent hit her instantly — jasmine oil, sandalwood, and that faint hint of her mother’s laughter.

She clutched it close, suddenly trembling.

That night, Aaliya wrapped the dupatta around her shoulders before sleeping. Not for any reason — just instinct. Just longing.

And then…

She heard it.

A soft voice.

“Don’t forget to say your prayers, jaan.”

Aaliya sat up, heart racing.

No one was in the room. But the voice was real. It wasn’t a memory. It was present. As though the scarf had carried it across the veil of death.

She clutched the fabric tighter.

Over the next few days, she began to wear the scarf around the house. At first, it was just for comfort — like a child holding a blanket. But something strange began to happen.

Whenever she wore it, she heard her mother’s voice.

Sometimes gentle reminders:

“Add a little cardamom to the tea, it softens bitterness.”

“Smile at your reflection. You’re still my brave girl.”

“Your sadness doesn’t make you weak.”

Other times, she would feel her mother’s presence — like arms around her during tears, or soft laughter in quiet rooms.

The dupatta became more than cloth. It became a bridge.

One day, Aaliya wore it while walking past a park she used to visit with her mother. Children were playing. A little girl tripped and began to cry. Aaliya rushed over, helped her up, and tied a little piece of tissue around the girl’s scraped knee.

The girl’s mother came over, thanked her, then paused and smiled.

“That scarf… it reminds me of my own mother. Beautiful.”

Aaliya smiled back.

“It used to belong to mine.”

And for the first time in months, she didn’t feel like crying when she said the word “mother.”

The scarf stayed with her in many seasons after that:

• On the day she gave her first speech at university.

• On the night she stayed up writing poems her mother would’ve loved.

• The day she adopted a small kitten her mother would have scolded her for bringing in — then secretly fed milk to.

Every time she wrapped it around her shoulders, it was like her mother was standing just behind her, hands resting lightly, whispering, “I’m still here.”

Years passed.

Aaliya grew stronger, though she still missed her mother every day.

One spring afternoon, she stood in her garden, now filled with marigolds, roses, and a swing. Her own daughter, Lina, was playing with ribbons in her hair.

“Ammi,” Lina called, “can I wear something of yours? Something special?”

Aaliya thought for a moment.

Then, carefully, she opened a drawer and brought out the same maroon dupatta.

She placed it gently around Lina’s small shoulders.

“This belonged to your nani. And now, it’s yours.”

Lina twirled in it, giggling.

And somewhere in the rustle of fabric and laughter, a whisper rode the wind:

“Well done, my girl.”