A Lonely Evening: When Silence Reminds You of Your Mother

 

Winter had tightened its grip on the city. Cold air slipped through the windows as Shubham returned from office, shoulders tired, heart heavier than usual.

He changed his clothes, tied an apron around his waist, and stepped into the kitchen.

The water was icy. It stung his fingers as he washed the morning’s utensils again—slowly, thoughtfully, as if time itself had decided not to move tonight.

A Simple Meal, An Empty House

He cooked lentils in the pressure cooker.
The flame hissed softly, filling the kitchen with a familiar sound.

He chopped one onion, one tomato, one radish—nothing extra. No spices beyond habit. No urgency.

His wife had gone to her parents’ house for a wedding.

The house knew it.

He carried the plate to his bedroom and switched on the television. His thumb rested on the remote, but he didn’t press any button. The noise felt unnecessary. The room already felt too loud with silence.

Memories That Visit Without Knocking

That was when his mother came to his mind.

She never allowed television during meals.
“Food deserves respect,” she used to say.

During his school days, Shubham would rush through homework whenever the smell of butter and oil filled the house. Some evenings, she made aloo parathas. They ate together near the fireplace—steam rising from plates, laughter mixing with warmth.

Those evenings never felt special then.
They feel priceless now.

Three Whistles and a Red Shawl

Three whistles sounded from the cooker.

Shubham walked back into the kitchen. He placed the cooker on the slab and wiped his hands on the shawl wrapped around his shoulders.

It was red.

The same shawl he had brought for his mother from Mata Vaishno Devi. She wore it proudly at weddings, telling everyone with a smile,
“My son brought this for me.”

That memory warmed him more than the lentils ever could.

He didn’t turn the TV back on.

Eating with Silence

Shubham sat down and ate.

No conversation.
No background noise.
Only the soft clink of steel and the weight of memories.

Some evenings don’t need words.
They just remind you of what once was—and who once sat beside you.

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