After days of debating with himself, Shankar finally decided to ask Devi.
The dim light of the evening filled the small room as Devi sat on the floor, folding clothes. The television played in the background, but neither of them was really paying attention to it.
Shankar took a deep breath. "Ma, there's a school trip next month."
Devi didn't look up. "Hmm."
"It's to Rajgir."
This time, she paused for just a second before continuing. "Rajgir?"
"Yes," Shankar said, leaning forward. "You've told me about it before—how the Pandavas went there, how it was ruled by Jarasandha. And Buddha spent years meditating there. It's a place filled with history, Ma." He hesitated. "I want to go."
Devi finally looked at him. There was no anger, no irritation. Just a quiet finality in her voice. "No, Shankar."
Shankar had expected this. "Ma, at least hear me out."
"I said no." Her tone was steady, controlled.
Shankar's fingers clenched around his own wrist. "But why?"
"Because you're not going."
His nails dug into his skin. "That's not a reason."
Devi sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Do you think I don't know what happens on these trips? Children running around, getting lost in the mountains, accidents on the road—"
"Ma, nothing is going to happen."
"And what if something does?" Her voice sharpened, a rare crack in her usual calm.
Shankar exhaled sharply. "You can't keep me locked up forever just because you're scared."
Devi turned to him, her eyes dark with something deeper than fear—something unspoken. "I have lost almost everything in life, Shankar. And you… you are the only thing I have left." Her voice wavered slightly. "I can't take the risk of losing you too."
Shankar let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Losing me? Ma, I'm not going off to war. It's just a school trip."
Devi clenched her fists, her nails pressing into her palms. "You don't understand."
"No, I don't," Shankar snapped, his voice rising. "Because you never tell me anything! You're always avoiding things, making excuses."
Silence.
Shankar's breathing was heavy now. His fists clenched, voice shaking—not from fear, but frustration.
"You never even told me what really happened to Baba."
"Why we left Kolkata. Why you're so angry at him… even after all these years."
He stepped back, his voice rising.
"You talk about prayers, maa. You teach me about gods, but you can't even tell me the truth about the man I'm supposed to remember?"
Devi didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The silence between them now was louder than anything Shankar had ever heard.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Devi's expression shifted—just for a moment. A flicker of something. Guilt? Pain? Fear? It was gone before Shankar could read it.
"That's not something you need to know." Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a door slamming shut.
Shankar scoffed, shaking his head. "There it is again. Hiding. Lying." His voice turned bitter. "You never tell me the truth about anything."
Devi exhaled sharply, trying to keep her voice steady. "You are all I have left, Shankar. After your father… you are the only thing that makes me happy." Her eyes darkened. "That's why I'm denying this."
Shankar stared at her.
Then, just as he turned to leave, he spoke—his voice quiet, yet heavy, like a wound splitting open.
"If I'm really all you have left… then why do I feel so alone?"
The words hung in the air, suffocating.
Devi didn't respond. She couldn't.
Shankar walked away, his footsteps echoing through the hollow silence.
Devi stood there, frozen. The weight of his words pressing down on her. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached for the wooden drawer beside her and pulled out a small, worn photograph.
A picture of Shankar as a child.
Her hands shook as she traced the edges, staring at his tiny face, once so full of joy.
The room felt colder. The past, heavier.
And for the first time in a long time, Devi felt something creeping up her throat—something she had buried deep inside her.
Guilt.
Shankar sat on his bed, his hands clenched into fists. The weight of the argument with his mother still hung over him like a storm cloud. He had never truly wanted to go on a school trip before, never felt the need to leave the familiar safety of his home. But this time, something was different. He needed to go. And yet, Devi—his mother, the person who mattered most—had refused.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. His mind raced for ways to convince her, but deep down, he knew it was useless. She wasn't just saying no—she was afraid.
On the other side of the house, Devi sat alone in the dimly lit living room. Her eyes were fixed on an old photograph she held in her hands—Shankar, no older than five, his face smeared with birthday cake, laughing as if the world had never known sadness. She traced his tiny face with her fingertips, her chest tightening.
A gentle rustling from behind made her glance up. Shankar's grandmother stood at the doorway, watching her. She had heard everything. Slowly, she walked over and settled beside Devi, her presence warm yet weighted with understanding.
"You remind me of myself," her mother-in-law said softly.
Devi swallowed but said nothing.
"I remember the day I lost my son," the older woman continued, her voice carrying years of grief. "I wanted to lock you and Shankar away. I thought… if I kept you both close, the world wouldn't take anything else from me."
Devi's grip on the photograph tightened. "And weren't you right?" she whispered, her voice brittle.
Her mother-in-law gave a sad smile. "Was I? I let my grief dictate how I lived. I thought I was keeping you safe, but all I did was trap us both in the past."
Devi blinked rapidly, shaking her head. "Shankar is all I have left," she murmured. "I can't—" Her voice broke, and she bit her lip hard to stop it from trembling.
Her mother-in-law placed a gentle hand over hers. "And because he's all you have, you must let him go, Devi. If you hold on too tightly, he will slip through your fingers."
Devi's breath hitched.
"You heard him tonight," the older woman continued. "He's not just asking for permission. He's searching for something. For answers, for meaning. If you don't let him take this step now, one day, he'll walk away without asking at all."
Devi shut her eyes, pressing the photograph against her chest.
Her mother-in-law sighed. "Keeping him locked away will not stop fate from taking its course."
Silence filled the room.
Devi looked down at the photograph once more. The little boy in the picture had grown. He was no longer the child she could shield from the world.
After a long pause, she whispered, "I'll tell him tomorrow."
Her mother-in-law gave a small nod, squeezing Devi's hand in silent support.
But as Devi sat there, holding onto the photograph, she wondered if a mother ever truly learns how to let go.