Amma Amma I Love | You -shaan-

“Amma,” he whispered. His voice cracked.

“Amma Amma I love you… Kanmaniyae… Neeyendri Yaarumillai Amma…”

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. Amma Amma I Love You -Shaan-

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.

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. “Amma,” he whispered

No response. Just the beep… beep… beep of the machine.

“Amma Amma… I love you… Mazhaipeyum nerathil… ” She was a fragile silhouette against the hissing

It was not a good voice. It was a voice wrecked by guilt and love, raw and ugly. But as he sang, he felt her thumb move.

What was that tune? It was an old film song. Amma Amma… I Love You…

The rain hammered against the windows of the ICU waiting room, a relentless, arrhythmic beat that matched the chaos in Arjun’s chest. He was twenty-eight, a successful investment banker in New York, a man who negotiated million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But here, sitting on a hard plastic chair in a hospital in Kerala, he was five years old again. Small. Scared. Lost.

His mother, Lakshmi, lay behind the heavy steel doors. A stroke. Sudden, massive, and cruelly timed on the eve of Vishu, the Malayali New Year.