Fleeting

She was returning from the river after a bath when the news reached her–her son had returned…

Her youngest and favourite with curly hair and almond eyes…

The one every one called a hero, giving him dreams taller than his stature in the society…

The one who had run away long back to become an actor and had never written back…

The one she and his father had cried for many years and presumed dead long back…

He was back and waiting for her at home.

The neighbour, who had run all the way to give her the news, had said that he was too quiet, with a drawn face and deep shadows beneath his eyes, a skeleton of the man he once was; that he seemed to have left his will, dreams, confidence behind in Mumbai–the city of dreams; that it might take her months, may be years, to get ‘him’ back.

But at least he had returned.

She ran all the way home, panting, for she was too old for running, out of breath and out of patience, dying to see once again the apple of her eyes; planning on the way…

His favourite food, wondering if he’d still eat out of her hands as he always did..

If the girl next door would make a pretty pair…

If he was still single…

If they could buy a shop for him to run or whatever he would want to do next…

Finally, he had come home. She would ensure he is happy again…

She reached home to find her husband trying to break down the door. A packet of jalebis, her son’s favourite, spilled on the floor. The neighbour’s kid, who managed to reach the ventilator fell from his perch. He was mumbling about a rope and a fan before he fainted.

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Free photo by Loren Joseph on Unsplash