“Yes ma, I have eaten,” I spoke into the phone, repeating the same line night after night, slightly aggravated by her overwhelming love and concern.
Laying on my creaky, uncomfortable dorm-room bed, thousands of miles away in New York, I wondered if my exasperated tone gave away my annoyance; even if it did, she pretended not to notice, for she continued to butcher me with the same questions – “shall I ask papa to book your tickets for India?”
“Ma!” I screamed, “enough! Goodnight,” and I cut the call.
Burrowing my cold face into my pillow, I hoped she didn’t feel bad at my outburst- the guilt beginning to creep in.
A little deeper into the night, I prayed a silent prayer, hoping papa would book my tickets soon, as I sunk in deeper into the thick blankets she wove me, taking a deep breath to savour her scent, smiling a little at the warm embrace of home she made sure I would never crave.
