“I’m sorry, Amma,” he wept. “I’m so sorry.”
The machine’s beep was steady. Stronger, it seemed. He leaned in close, his lips to her ear.
What was that tune? It was an old film song. Amma Amma… I Love You… Amma Amma I Love You -Shaan-
For the last ten years, Arjun had measured his success in the miles he had put between himself and this small town. He had spoken to Amma every Sunday, a perfunctory five-minute call. Yes, work is good. No, I’m not skipping meals. I’ll try to come for Onam. He had sent money, bought her a new fridge, a washing machine. He had reduced her to a line item in his budget.
“Amma,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Amma,” he wept
His head shot up. Her eyes were still closed, but a single tear had escaped the corner of her right eye, tracing a silver path into her grey hair.
“Don’t leave me, Amma. I’m coming home. For good. I’ll get a job in Kochi. We’ll walk on the beach every evening. I’ll learn to make your fish curry. Just… please.” He leaned in close, his lips to her ear
He remembered a different room, decades ago. His childhood bedroom. He had been terrified of a nightmare—a monstrous shadow on the wall. He had screamed. Amma had burst in, not annoyed, not sleepy, but alert like a warrior. She had held him, her sari smelling of cardamom and coconut oil. She had hummed a tune until his breaths slowed.