My Mother’s Prince - Every kingdom begins at home.

 

The Prince Who Questioned Stories

“Once upon a time, there was a prince…”

“Ammaaa,” he groaned, pulling the bedsheet over his head, “why does every story start with a prince? Don’t you know any stories about accountants? Or vegetable sellers?”

His mother paused dramatically, as if she had been deeply offended.

“Because,” she said, tapping his forehead lightly, “you are my prince.”

He peeked out from under the blanket.

“I don’t even have a kingdom.”

“You have a room.”

“With peeling paint.”

“Royal peeling paint.”

He tried not to laugh. He failed.

He was not like other children.

He didn’t fight with cousins over TV remotes.
He didn’t lead cricket teams.
He didn’t even argue loudly.

In family functions, he was the boy who stood near the water drum holding a plastic tumbler, pretending to be busy. If someone asked, “Why are you so silent?” he would smile politely and think, Because someone has to maintain peace in this noisy country.

His best friend was a red rubber ball. It had survived more conversations than most humans.

Every evening, he would take that ball outside and play alone. Throw. Catch. Miss. Chase. Repeat.

Once a neighbor aunty asked, “Why are you playing alone?”

He replied honestly, “Because if I play with others, they’ll ask me to field.”

The aunty laughed for five full minutes. He didn’t know what was so funny.

His world was small.

School.
Home.
His mother.

No dramatic adventures. No secret friendships. Just quiet days and loud thoughts.

But his mother filled every silence.

When electricity went off, she would start stories.

“When I was small,” she would say, “I also wanted to be brave.”

“You weren’t brave?” he asked once.

“I married your father. That was brave enough.”

He blinked. “Was Appa a villain?”

“No,” she smiled. “Just… a different kingdom.”

He didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing — his mother carried both love and strength in her voice.

Years passed quietly.

He grew taller.
The ball became smaller in his hands.
The stories remained the same.

“Once upon a time, there was a prince…”

But now he didn’t interrupt.

He just listened.

Because somewhere inside, he liked believing it.

When he completed his degree, the house felt proud.

His mother made payasam even though it wasn’t a festival.

“My prince is now a graduate,” she announced to absolutely nobody — but with full confidence.

He smiled shyly. “Don’t tell everyone like that.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll expect royal achievements.”

She winked. “Good. Pressure builds diamonds.”

“Amma… I am not a diamond.”

“You are still in mining stage.”

He laughed again. He always laughed at her jokes, even when they were terrible.

Especially when they were terrible.

That night, he lay awake staring at the ceiling fan.

Graduate.

It sounded big.

It felt… small.

The world outside was larger than his room with royal peeling paint.

And for the first time, the prince wondered —

Was he ready to step outside the kingdom?

Rise

 It’s not their opinion that defines your name,
Not their comparisons, not their game;
Stand tall, don’t let their shadows win,
Your strength has always lived within.

Don’t bow your head for what is gone,
The past is dusk, the future dawn;
Stop counting losses, scars, and cost,
You are not broken, you are not lost.

Focus sharp on what you can do,
There’s power burning inside of you;
Be yourself: bold, awake, alive
This is your moment. Stand. Rise. Thrive.

After the Last Train - Part 8 - Final

 

The Ordinary Days

Days did not stop.

Office emails still arrived.
Meetings were still scheduled.
Files still required signatures.

Kabir returned to work.

At first, everything felt distant, like watching life through glass.

He avoided Platform 3.

He stopped noticing autos.

Coffee became just coffee again.

Weeks passed.

The sharp pain softened.

The memories blurred at the edges.

Her voice became harder to recall clearly.

Sometimes he tried to remember how she laughed 
but the sound would fade midway.

Gradually

He stopped checking old chats.

He stopped standing near the place where it happened.

He stopped waiting.

Routine is powerful.

It fills spaces.

It covers cracks.

It teaches you how to wake up, work, eat, sleep 
without reopening wounds.

Months later, he could go through an entire day without thinking of her.

Not because she meant little.

But because life kept moving.

And so did he.

Somewhere, deep inside,
a small corner still held a train platform,
an unfinished coffee,
and a soft voice saying

“Bye… thank you so much.”

But outside

He continued.

Just another man.

Just another day.

And many more days similar like this....

After the Last Train - Part 7

 

The Last Glance

Platform 3 waited quietly.

Kabir reached early.

He checked the clock.
7:38.

He checked his phone.
No message.

7:45.
A train arrived. People rushed. She didn’t step out.

7:52.
He called. It rang. No answer.

“Maybe traffic,” he muttered.

8:05.

Something inside him shifted from hope to mild irritation.

“Fine,” he whispered to himself. “If she doesn’t want to come…”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and began walking out of the station.

The evening felt strangely heavy.

As he crossed the road outside, a small crowd had gathered ahead.

Vehicles were halted.
People were whispering.

He would have walked past.

He almost did.

But something — maybe instinct — made him look.

An auto stood crushed sideways.

And on the road—

A familiar bag.

His steps slowed.

His heartbeat didn’t.

It stopped.

Through the small gap in the crowd, he saw her.

Mira.

Lying still.

Someone was holding her hand.

Her eyes were half-open, searching — unfocused.

Then—

She found him.

Across the chaos.

Across the noise.

Across everything they never said.

For a second, the world went silent.

Her lips trembled.

In pain. In effort.

But she smiled.

Faint. Soft.

And with whatever breath was left, she whispered—

“Bye… thank you so much.”

Not accusing.

Not regretting.

Just grateful.

Her eyes slowly lost her hold on him.

The noise returned.

People moved.

Someone shouted for an ambulance.

But Kabir stood frozen.

Platform 3 was only a few steps behind him.

Yet he had never felt farther from her.

After the Last train - Part 6

 

The Silence That Spoke

Time did not stop.

It simply stretched.

Weeks passed with polite messages.

“Reached?”
“Yes.”
“Work fine?”
“Hmm.”

Words became shorter.

Feelings did not.

Mira had started leaving home earlier than necessary.
She told herself it was to avoid rush hour.

But sometimes, she stood near Platform 3 — just for a minute.

Not waiting.

Just standing.

As if the air there still remembered them.

Kabir had begun taking autos more often, even when buses were easier.

He would sit quietly, watching the side mirror.

Every time the auto driver adjusted it, he remembered how Mira once complained,
“Why do they always drive like they’re in a race?”

He smiled to himself.

Then looked away.

One afternoon, rain came suddenly.

Heavy. Unplanned. Loud.

Mira got stuck outside her office without an umbrella.

She laughed helplessly — because he always carried one.

She almost dialed his number.

Almost.

Instead, she stood under a small shade, letting the rain splash her shoes.

At the same time, miles away, Kabir noticed it was raining.

Without thinking, he checked his phone.

No message.

He locked it again.

Something was changing.

Not love.

Not care.

Just—

The way they held it.

That evening, she finally sent a message:

“Are you free for coffee sometime?”

It was simple.

No hidden meaning.

No dramatic pause.

He stared at it longer than he should have.

Then replied:

“Platform 3?”

She smiled.

“Platform 3.”

It wasn’t about trains anymore.

It wasn’t about convenience.

It wasn’t even about distance.

It was about choosing the same place —

Even after walking separate roads.

After the Last Train - Part 5

 

In Between Everything

Days adjusted.

They no longer stood on the same platform every morning.
No more shared coffee at 7:42.
No more predictable glances from across the tracks.

Now they traveled in opposite directions.

But strangely 

They began meeting in smaller, quieter places.

Mira would sit in her new office cafeteria, staring at a cup of coffee she barely drank.

She didn’t even like coffee much.

But the steam rising from it reminded her of the way Kabir used to hold his cup carefully, blowing on it as if it were fragile glass.

She would smile unknowingly.

At the same time, Kabir would step out of his office building and hear an auto driver argue loudly with a passenger.

Instantly 

He would turn his head.

For a second, he would expect to see her waving her hands dramatically, negotiating over five rupees as if it were a national debate.

He would almost smile.

Then remember.

She wasn’t there.

Distance did not shout.

It quietly slipped into daily routines.

She would draft emails and suddenly think, He would correct this sentence.
He would organize his files and think, She would mess this table in five minutes.

They didn’t call daily.

Not because they didn’t want to.

But because something delicate had entered between them — a carefulness.

One evening, while waiting for her train, Mira typed a message:

“Do you ever miss Platform 3?”

She stared at it for a long time.

Deleted it.

At the same time, Kabir stood near an auto stand, watching drivers argue.

He opened their chat window.

Typed:

“Coffee tastes bad alone.”

Deleted.

Neither wanted to sound needy.

Neither wanted to disturb the balance.

Yet

Whenever she saw coffee, she thought of him.

Whenever he saw an auto, he thought of her.

The city was full of reminders.

Not loud enough to hurt.

Not soft enough to ignore.

And somewhere between missed trains and unfinished messages

Their almost-love was learning to breathe quietly.

After the Last Train - Part 4

 

A Seat Without Reservation

The 8:10 train was different.

More crowded. More impatient. Less familiar.

Kabir stood near the door, slightly off-balance — not because of the train’s movement, but because he wasn’t used to not knowing the rhythm.

Mira held the overhead handle and looked at him sideways.

“Uncomfortable, Mr. Timetable?”

“I prefer structured chaos,” he replied.

She laughed. “This is unstructured chaos. Promotion comes with adventure.”

He noticed the small differences.

She stood more confidently now.
Her bag was heavier.
Her smile — the same.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked after a while.

“Because,” she said, “if I had told you before, you would have said ‘think practically.’ You would have calculated distance, time, fuel, comfort.”

“And that’s wrong?”

“No,” she smiled. “But sometimes I want to choose something before you measure it.”

The train jerked suddenly.

She lost balance slightly.

Without thinking, he held her wrist.

For a second, neither moved.

Then she slowly pulled her hand back.

“Relax,” she said lightly. “I won’t miss this train.”

He looked out the door.

“Platform 3 feels strange without you,” he admitted.

“Platform 1 felt strange without you too,” she replied softly.

A vendor squeezed between passengers shouting, “Chips! Biscuits!”

Mira bought a packet and handed it to Kabir.

“For emotional support,” she said.

He shook his head but took it.

“Tell me something,” she continued. “If one day I shift to a city where there is no train… what will you do?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

The announcement echoed: Next station…

He looked at her.

“I might finally be late.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“For once,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to reach before you.”

The train slowed.

Doors opened.

Crowd moved.

But this time 

Neither of them rushed.