-shaan- - Amma Amma I Love You

He thought of the last time he was home, two years ago. He was on his laptop, answering emails at the dining table. Amma had placed a plate of avial and rice in front of him. He had grunted, not looking up. She had stood there for a moment, her hand hovering over his hair, as if wanting to ruffle it. Then she had pulled back. She had gone to the kitchen and turned on the radio. He hadn’t noticed her silence.

He began to sing louder, not caring if the nurses heard. Not caring about anything. Amma Amma I Love You -Shaan-

“Amma?” he gasped.

He walked into her room in the dead of night. She was a fragile silhouette against the hissing monitors, her once-vibrant hands now still on the white sheets. He pulled a chair close and took her hand. It felt like dry autumn leaves. He thought of the last time he was home, two years ago

The song faded from his lips. He rested his head on the bed, still holding her hand. He had grunted, not looking up

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.

“I’m sorry, Amma,” he wept. “I’m so sorry.”