Amma Amma I Love You -shaan- | TRUSTED |

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…

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-

Two hours later, when the nurse came to check the vitals, she found the son asleep in the chair, his head on the mattress. And the mother—the woman who was supposed to be unresponsive—her other hand, the one with the IV drip, had moved. It was resting gently on her son’s hair.

No response. Just the beep… beep… beep of the machine. It was not a good voice

“Amma Amma… I love you… Mazhaipeyum nerathil… ”

“Amma Amma I love you… Kanmaniyae… Neeyendri Yaarumillai Amma…” What was that tune

For the last ten years, Arjun had measured his success in the miles he had put between himself and this small town. He had spoken to Amma every Sunday, a perfunctory five-minute call. Yes, work is good. No, I’m not skipping meals. I’ll try to come for Onam. He had sent money, bought her a new fridge, a washing machine. He had reduced her to a line item in his budget.