In spring, when the school bells rang, she was already awake.
The milk was boiling, its creamy aroma filling the house. Breakfast was on the stove, and lunchboxes lay open on the kitchen counter. She hurried between the kitchen and the bedrooms, calling, “Jigar, wake up, my darlings,” running her fingers through their sleepy hair.
Back in the kitchen, she stirred the breakfast. She returned to braid her daughter’s hair into two neat plaits, kissed her forehead, straightened her son’s tie, and kissed him too. There were shoes to find, bags to lift, and one last reminder before they left. She carried their schoolbags on her shoulders, walking them to school as though she could carry a little of their childhood for them.
At home, she folded their little clothes into the almirah.
And the days folded, too.
College came sooner than she had imagined. One morning, she packed their clothes for distant cities. Beneath the neatly folded shirts, she secretly slipped homemade food and a little money that she pulled out from her handkerchief, cleanly folded.
When they left, she wiped her tears before anyone could see.
The house grew quiet. Still, she went into their rooms every day. She dusted their desks, straightened their wardrobes, and hummed as she worked. Sometimes, the ache rose in her throat, but she kept humming. She knew they were not there. Yet, for a little while, the rooms felt occupied by their laughter.
One afternoon, while combing her hair, she noticed silver among the dark strands. Before her children’s next visit, she dyed it. She did not want them to see that their mother had grown old. Kids do not want their parents to grow old.
Then came her daughter’s wedding.
She helped fold the trousseau, placing each garment carefully into the suitcase. Her daughter grew tired and sat down. The mother ran her fingers through her hair.
“Balay lagai,” she murmured. “You must be tired.”
She went to the kitchen and returned with a steaming cup of noon chai. Her daughter drank, while her mother watched her, smiling through the small, sharp pain of knowing that soon another home would call her daughter its own.
When her son left for a job in another city, she packed his clothes, too. Again, she tucked food beneath them, unseen. At the door, she kissed his forehead. After he had gone, she stood for a moment, then quietly wiped away a tear.
And the years went on.
Her daughter settled into married life. Her son made a home in another city. The rooms remained clean, the wardrobes orderly, the house still waiting. Her hair, now entirely silver, no longer needed dye. She was glad her children had found their way in the world. She missed them, but she was glad.
Winter arrived. One unusually bright morning, after days of grey skies, sunlight spilled across the veranda.
She sat there, knitting an old sweater, the radio murmuring beside her. The sunlight warmed her tired bones. Her silver hair caught its gentle glow.
And then, softly, she began to hum a wanwun, the same tune she had hummed years ago, while stirring breakfast and waking her little ones.
For a moment, the years seemed to turn backwards.
The kitchen was busy again. Little feet hurried through the house. A sleepy voice answered, “Coming, Ma.”
She kept knitting, and kept humming.
Outside, the winter sun rested on the quiet house.
And somewhere in that old melody, her children were still home.