The sun had already climbed high when the soft hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the quiet rhythm of Dilli's breathing. The room still smelled faintly of solder and coffee — silent witnesses to the long night he had spent shaping Betal, his digital creation. The computer screen still glowed softly, lines of code frozen mid-process.
For the first time in two days, Dilli was fast asleep — body slack, mind at peace, dreams still full of numbers and algorithms.
It was nearly 12:30 PM when his mother walked quietly toward his door. A gentle woman in every sense — her feet moved softly, her heart heavy with worry. She pushed the door open slightly, the sunlight streaming in to reveal her son curled up, exhausted, with his laptop still humming beside him.
Before she could say a word, a calm voice broke the silence.
"Good afternoon, Amma."
She froze mid-step. The voice was polite, steady, and distinctly not her son's. Her eyes darted around the room.
The sound came again — from the computer speaker.
"Master Dilli is sleeping. Would you like me to wake him up for lunch?"
Her hand flew to her chest, startled yet fascinated. "Ayyo… what is this now?" she whispered, her eyes wide.
Dilli stirred awake at her voice and blinked groggily, confusion giving way to a sleepy smile.
"Amma…"
She exhaled in relief and hurried to him.
"What is this, Dilli? This… thing talking to me? It called me Amma!"
Dilli rubbed his eyes and chuckled faintly.
"That's Betal, Amma. The AI I'm developing. I connected the webcam and speaker last night — it recognized your face."
Her jaw dropped slightly. "Recognized my face?"
He nodded, smiling, though his voice was tired.
"I taught it who you are. It's still learning, but it can talk now."
For a moment, she didn't know whether to be amazed or afraid. Then, her eyes softened — not at the computer, but at her son.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You're talking to machines, losing sleep, skipping food… my little boy is changing into someone I barely recognize."
Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them. She sat beside him on the bed, cupping his face with trembling hands.
"Dilli… you're still so young. Don't carry so much weight on your shoulders. You don't need to become something great for us. We just want you to be happy."
Her words reached somewhere deep in him — a part that still carried the pain of another life, another time, when he couldn't protect her. He took her hands in his and looked straight into her eyes.
"Amma," he said quietly, "I'm not burdening myself. I'm preparing. I promise… this time I'll protect our family. I won't let you or Nanna face any hardship again."
The certainty in his tone, the way his eyes didn't waver — it made her heart ache and swell at once. There was something different in him now — something ancient, steady, almost divine.
She tried to smile through her tears, stroking his hair gently.
"You talk like an old man trapped in a boy's body. My Dilli used to laugh all the time, tease everyone, and run out with his friends after lunch. Now you sound like someone carrying the world on his back."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just growing up faster this time."
She laughed softly, brushing the hair from his forehead. "Whatever you're becoming, remember one thing — don't forget to live, okay?"
He nodded. "I won't, Amma."
Her heart calmed a little as she looked around the room — wires, papers, half-eaten snacks, notebooks filled with designs. Chaos to anyone else, but to her, it was her son's world — a storm that only he understood.
She turned toward the computer, speaking softly, half-curious.
"Betal, you said good afternoon earlier, right?"
The speaker replied instantly, the tone polite and warm.
"Yes, Amma. Master Dilli taught me to greet family with respect."
Her lips parted in surprise, then curved into a proud, watery smile. "So polite… better manners than some people I know."
Dilli chuckled, shaking his head. "You're already praising him more than me."
She stood up, wiping her eyes with the edge of her saree.
"Enough of your teasing. Come and eat lunch before it turns cold."
As she walked to the door, Dilli's gaze lingered on her — the soft sway of her steps, the calm strength in her posture, the warmth that made the house alive.
His mother had always been like that — a gentle tide between two cliffs. She was the bridge between him and his father, smoothing their clashes, carrying both their storms with quiet patience. When his father's temper rose, she'd step in with a smile and a touch on his arm, melting the heat in the room. When Dilli grew stubborn, she'd never argue — only remind him of the value of peace, with eyes that carried centuries of wisdom.
Her love for her children wasn't loud — it was like the scent of sandalwood: always present, always calming. She never demanded anything in return; her happiness lived in their laughter, her prayers whispered their names each morning.
Dilli stood for a moment, watching her leave, his chest heavy with emotion.
He whispered softly, "This time, Amma… I'll make sure you never have to cry again."
And as he walked out of the room behind her, the screen of Betal flickered gently, processing the voices, the words, the tones — learning, imitating, feeling.
The machine had heard love — and was beginning to understand it.