A love so precious, the purest of pure
untouched by desire, untouched by need.
No measure can hold it, no heart can compare,
for it stands second only to a mother’s love.
Unconditional as breath,
quiet as a prayer,
it lives not in the body
but in the soul that never fades.
It knows no ending,
only the miracle of being born
again and again
in the deepest chambers of the heart.
He entered his room and closed the door gently—not to shut her out, but to keep his emotions from spilling over. The quiet inside the room felt different from the outside. This was the silence he usually loved… but today it felt heavy. Suffocating.
He dropped his sling bag on the floor and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, face in his palms.
Everything hit him at once.
The long walk.
The scorching heat.
The interview disaster.
The disappointment in himself.
The fear of failing again.
He let out a long breath, the kind that made his chest feel hollow. He wished he could hide inside himself, disappear for a while. Life felt too loud even in silence.
Outside, his mother moved quietly, not wanting to disturb him but unable to settle. She opened the kitchen cupboard, closed it, then opened it again without reason. She paced a little. She waited, listening for any sign from his room.
After a few minutes, she couldn’t resist. She walked to his door. She didn’t knock. She just placed her hand softly on the wood, as if that alone could reach him.
Inside, he lay down slowly, curling up on one side. His eyes stung, not from tears, but from exhaustion. His body felt drained. His mind felt bruised.
He wasn’t crying.
But he wasn’t okay either.
A mother senses things without being told.
She walked back to the kitchen and started preparing something light—upma, his favourite comfort food. She worked quietly, with small prayers whispered in between.
“Let him get good news soon…”
“Give him strength…”
“Don’t test him more, God… please.”
By the time the food was ready, she checked the clock. Almost an hour had passed.
She went back to his door and knocked gently this time.
“Kanna… you want to eat something? I made upma for you. Just a little, come.”
Inside, he heard her voice—soft, concerned, steady. The kind of voice that could lift anyone from the deepest pit.
He wiped his face, breathed out, and got up slowly. He opened the door.
She looked at him with the same love she had carried since he was a child.
“Tired?” she asked softly.
He nodded.
She didn’t say anything else. She just guided him to the kitchen, placed the plate in front of him, and sat beside him like she used to when he was a little boy.
“Eat slowly,” she said, brushing his hair gently with her fingers.
That moment—her presence, her concern, her touch—felt like medicine. Stronger than anything else in the world.
He took a bite.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
The kind of food that wrapped comfort around the heart.
She watched him, not rushing, not questioning further. Just being there.
And for the first time since morning, he felt a little lighter.
Not cured.
Not confident.
But supported.
Loved.
Not alone.
Sometimes, that was enough to survive another day.
He waited a little longer on the balcony, the metal armrest warm under his hand. He shifted in the chair, exhausted but refusing to move. The house felt too empty without her. Too silent. Too unfamiliar.
And then… he heard it.
Her voice.
Faint, coming from the neighbour’s house—laughing, talking, probably discussing something as she always did. He closed his eyes for a moment. That sound alone eased something tight inside him. But still, he didn’t get up. He didn’t call out. He just waited… wanting to see her walk through the gate.
A few minutes later, the latch clicked. The gate opened. She stepped in, adjusting the edge of her saree, still speaking something to herself. She looked up—and froze for a second when she saw him sitting there.
“Aiyo! Why are you sitting out here?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
“Did you eat anything? Aren’t you hungry? Look at you… you’re so tired. Why didn’t you go inside and rest on the bed for a while?”
He didn’t say anything immediately. Just smiled. A small, tired smile—but a real one. Seeing her was like someone had poured cool water over a burning day. The weight on his chest lifted, even if just a little.
They went inside together.
She walked ahead, fussing, switching on the fan, removing her slippers hurriedly. He followed slowly.
“Sit,” she said, almost ordering him.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of chilled juice. She handed it to him with that motherly stare that was half-love, half-scolding.
“What happened? Why do you look like you walked through a desert?” she asked.
“Didn’t you come by bus or taxi?”
He took a sip before answering, and then gave a half-embarrassed smile.
“I… ran out of money,” he said softly. “Couldn’t afford a bus or auto. So… I walked.”
She put her hand on her forehead dramatically.
“Ayyo! So far? Oh god…”
She shook her head. “How many times should I tell you? Always keep extra money when you go out. We never know what will happen. I’ll give you some, keep it safely.”
He didn’t argue. Just kept sipping the juice.
“And what about the interview?” she asked cautiously.
He hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“It didn’t go well,” he said. “Feels like I’ll fail again… this time too. Let me rest a bit. I’ll… go to my room.”
His voice cracked a little—not enough for her to comment, but enough for her to notice.
He placed the half-empty glass on the table and stood up. His shoulders drooped; the exhaustion of the day, the disappointment of the interview, and the weight of his own thoughts pressed into him all at once.
Slowly, he walked to his room.
As he disappeared inside, his mother stood in the hall, watching him with worry filling her eyes. She whispered a quiet prayer under her breath, taking God’s name, asking for strength for her son… asking for something good to finally come his way.
Because a mother can hide her fears from the world—
but never from herself.
