Maa, what’s for dinner today?” Mousami asked excitedly, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Chitra smiled warmly, her voice as soft as a lullaby. “Your favorite, shahi paneer, baby.”
Mousami beamed with joy. She was inseparable from her mother—her best friend, her confidante, her guide, her entire world. With Chitra, she never had to think twice before sharing her secrets, fears, or dreams. Their home was a cocoon of love, a fairy tale woven with laughter, warmth, and endless chatter. Malay, Chitra, and Mousami—their little world was a paradise where happiness echoed through the walls.
And at the heart of it all was Chitra—the soul of the family. Simple yet elegant, soft-spoken yet strong, she carried the burdens of the household with such grace that no one ever saw the weight she bore.
But life, as cruel as it can be, does not let fairy tales last forever.
One ordinary afternoon, the first crack appeared in their perfect world. Chitra was diagnosed with cancer. A cold, suffocating silence fell over the house. The once lively home now felt hollow, as if laughter had been exiled.
Chitra, ever the pillar of strength, tried to hold everything together. She smiled even when pain twisted her insides, laughed even as death’s shadow loomed over her. Mousami watched helplessly as her mother withered before her eyes. She tried to stay strong but how could she stay strong while watching her whole world crumble?
Then came the day that shattered everything.
Mousami returned home from college, expecting to see her mother in the kitchen or lying on the sofa with a book. But the house was eerily silent. A sense of dread clawed at her heart. She called out, “Mumma?” But there was no reply.
Her hands turned cold. Her legs felt like they would give out. And then she saw her.
Chitra was lying on the floor, motionless.
The air left Mousami’s lungs. A scream tore through her throat. “Mummaaa!”
But her voice disappeared into the void.
She ran to her mother, shaking her, begging, pleading, crying hysterically. “Please, Mumma, wake up! Please!”
But Chitra was gone.
A storm raged outside, wind howling through the windows, as if the heavens themselves were mourning. She clung to her mother’s lifeless body, sobs racking her soul, her tears drenching Chitra’s saree.
The harbinger of happiness, the light of their home, was no more.
Malay, too broken to grieve, buried himself in work.
And Mousami? She withdrew into the silence. The walls of their home stood the same, but the warmth was gone.
She lay in bed every night, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the moments she had taken for granted, all the times she should have hugged her mother a little tighter, all the words she should have said.
If only she could turn back time.
But time is merciless. And no matter how many times she wished, begged, or screamed into the night—Chitra would never come back.
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