"Can I touch your hand for a moment?"

She stopped looking at his childhood photos and suddenly asked him. As she looked into his face.

It was an unexpected question. He stared straight into her eyes, as if searching their depths. She saw a multitude of questions swirling in his gaze.

Unable to answer them, she lowered her head. The silence among the three of them swelled with a torrent of unspoken words.

His heart raced, struggling with a whirlwind of emotions. The way she asked touched him deeply and made his heart tremble. He felt like a sea ravaged by a volcanic eruption. She tried to peer into the depths of that turbulent ocean.

But was it possible?

It wasn’t an unreasonable request… Yet what was he supposed to make of that look? The person who once exploded like a firecracker was now as silent as a monk. The grandmother glanced between the two of them, watching silently.

A heavy mix of resentment, suffocation, and lifelong struggle brewed among the three.

As he looked at her, a letter his cousin had written from the hostel to her mother came to mind, one of his aunt had proudly read aloud to everyone.

'Amma, I miss you, Amma... I miss you and your love. I love you, Mom. I love you so much. I love you as much as that love of yours which used to press me to your chest and shower kisses on my forehead.

You always tried to feed me everything. If I was stubborn, you would cajole me with sweet words and feed me anyway. The moment I asked, you would have all kinds of snacks ready in an instant.

You were always anxious that I should look my best. You laughed and made me laugh. You played 'Vana Vana Vallappa' (rain games) with me. You played all kinds of fun games with me, both indoors and outdoors.

You introduced me to so many new things, you opened up a new world for me. Just like cooking rice and curry, you wove new stories every day. I couldn’t sleep without hearing the bedtime stories you told. I don’t know where you got all those stories from, but I loved them so much. You would hug me tightly, pat me gently, and whisper, 'Goodnight, goodnight.'

You turned every day into something special for me. You always wanted to make me happy. That’s why I love you so much.. so much that it reaches the peaks of the Himalayas.

Amma, I miss you, Amma...'

She had written a very long letter. He knew how much joy that child’s love had brought his aunt, and how she had treasured it.

'Will I ever be able to tell my mother something like that?' he wondered, looking at the woman before him.

What did she know of how much he had yearned for her warm touch, for her affectionate embrace? What did she know of the many nights he had soaked his pillow with tears, aching for that gaze, for that love?

What had he received from her? Only endless grief… only a burden his heart could not bear.

'Hmph… now, after all these years, she remembers me? Does she?' His mind boiled with resentment.

'They don’t need me. Their life is for others. They never lived for their own child', he had often worried. Not knowing how to handle the pain tearing at his heart, he would lash out at his grandmother.

Poor grandmother, how she had endured his anger and frustration!

'How can I love her just because she’s come here now, speaking sweetly and calling me 'son'? Is this a movie?'

'They may be the reason for my birth, but I didn’t ask to be born. They chose to bring me into this world. So isn’t it their responsibility to raise me? Why abandon me? Why try to get rid of me? Their life is their choice, but they had no right to make me an orphan. They had no right to trample on my rights.'

He had argued with his grandmother about this many times. "At her age, how many worries does Grandmother already carry… and anyway, is there anyone in this world without worries?" he thought, looking at her.

Sitting a little distance away, the grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. Two drops slipped down. She hid the surging grief in her heart behind the corner of her sari. She tried to compose herself and appear normal amid the storm of emotions.

She saw the meeting of mother and son as a rare and wonderful sight. Her heart, which she thought had turned to stone, overflowed with joy. Tears welled up, a feeling she believed had long since dried up. She wished these moments, which she never thought she would live to see, would last forever.

Her grandson hated it when she referred to "your mother" or "your father." Yet she couldn’t help herself.

Your grandson would lash out:

• "Did your son ever carry me on his shoulders?
• Did he hold my hand and guide me?
• Did he sit me on his lap and tell me stories?
• Did he correct my mistakes?
• Did he teach me right from wrong?
• Did he pave the way for my future?
• Was he there when I chased my dreams?
• Did he struggle for me?
• Was he an inspiration?
• Tell me, why should I call him father?"

'You can save your breath.. speaking of your son's greatness,' the grandson said, firing arrows of questions with a single glance. Looking at the grandson who used to tease her in various ways while he was in his twelth class, asking, 'you gave birth to such a son?

"A father is belief… strength… a friend… courage… responsibility… a shield… a symbol of sacrifice. It’s true you didn’t receive those things, but he did so much more."

The grandson would retort: "How can I believe that people who did nothing for their own son would do anything for others?" He would pour out his anger and frustration not only on his parents but on his grandmother too.

Poor woman. Where else could she release that pain? Only with him. That’s why she continued sharing her feelings, no matter how much he lashed out.

"Oh, you foolish boy… What do you know about them? They are an inspiration to many. They are the very definition of sacrifice. In those days, your father was highly educated, a genius who could have stood at the top of society. But he turned his back on a life handed to him on a platter. He left behind his parents, his son, his relationships, everything...they had a greater goal. They understood that personal bonds should not obstruct that goal. They had the courage to endure any hardship for it. It wasn’t for themselves or their own people. They fought for the downtrodden and the oppressed. That is no small thing. In the process, your parents sacrificed their comfort, their health, and even their lives. They are great people," the grandmother would say, trying to build a bridge between them.

But when he saw her eyes fill with tears at the memory of her martyred son, he would soften. "Those who abandoned you and me, what do they know about the value of these tears? Even if your grief flows like a river, it changes nothing now. You should let go of this sorrow that cuts like a knife. Don’t cry, Grandmother," he would say. And she would bless him, wishing him a hundred years of life.

He never showed anyone his parents’ photos, but his grandmother knew he would take them out after falling asleep. She told herself that the pain he kept locked inside, the pain that made him appear normal on the outside, was what fueled his outbursts. She consoled herself, trying to push away the fear that she, who didn’t know how much longer she had to live, might leave her grandson alone. In this moment, she saw new hope blossoming.

She looked at her daughter-in-law, who was intently studying a photo in the album.

For any mother, sacrificing the bond of blood for the sake of revolution is an immense test. Keeping the child with them would have meant constant danger. She deeply respected the mother who had, with great difficulty, left her infant son behind in those early days.

~*~

She had struggled enormously to protect the baby who had given new meaning to her life. The child she had left behind eighteen years ago now stood before her—a tall, six-foot-tall young man.

She had never imagined a day like this would come. A powerful desire to pull this child of her blood to her chest overwhelmed her.

"How is he… what is he doing… will I ever see him… will I be able to talk to him… will I be able to tell him who I am?" the mother had wondered countless times.

"What a miserable situation… does any mother go through this?" she would torment herself.

She had cherished her apple-like, glowing baby for those ten months. All her love and affection were contained in that brief time.

Living every moment in danger, she had held him close to her chest, treasuring his toothless smiles and moon-like face in the deepest corners of her heart.

She and her partner, busy in different roles and places, would discuss their child’s future whenever they could, amid the challenges of parenthood.

Days passed in a constant conflict between Life’s Goal and Biological Child.

The mother spent her time in hesitation, anxiety, and mental agony, torn between the bond of blood and their chosen path.

In the end, the scales tipped in favor of Life’s Goal.

Her heart sighed with relief, believing that once the child reached safety, he would be protected.

They knew their own lives could end at any moment. Death was always stalking them. They felt no fear for themselves. They were prepared for anything… on the path of revolution, fighting for land, for bread, for the liberation of the people.

In a world consumed by selfishness, how was the son she could not see? How was he growing? What did he look like now? Whose features did he carry? If they ever met, would they recognize each other?

Thoughts of their son would surface occasionally.

Until her partner was martyred, they tried to meet on their son’s birthday. They found comfort in imagining him through their conversations.

~*~

When the doorbell rang earlier, the mother had frozen, staring at his tall, imposing figure. It was as if a rare, long-lost treasure had appeared before her.

Her eyes overflowed with the light of a thousand full moons as she gazed at him in wonder. At first glance he resembled her, but the more she looked, the more she saw his father’s nose and eyes.

He was equally stunned.

In her, he saw his own reflection… and an immense, unspoken affection. It was a rare, precious moment.

~*~

"I have no relationship with my mother and father. What do I know of those emotions?"

"I remember seeing her photo in the newspaper once.

Is she the one who carried me for nine months and gave me this body? Did she worry when I was sick? Did she swallow her tears for me?"

"I don’t know a mother’s lap. I don’t know her touch. You all say she is my biological mother, but that’s only because you tell me so.

What bond do I truly have with her? Perhaps every human is born alone… but everyone else has bonds they call their own. I have blood relations, but they come only after the parents who gave me life."

"I live in a state where I don’t even know if my biological parents are alive or not. I don’t know information about you. How can I forget those moments when I yearned to hear your voice and to feel your touch?"

"people say it’s an unbreakable bond… how could you break it?"

"Perhaps everyone feels immense love for their mother… but now, seeing you at this age, I feel nothing. You may have given birth to me, but you didn’t raise me."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he watched the mother answering his grandmother’s questions.

"The tragedy I endured without any say in it was your absence. I don’t know the taste of a mother’s lullabies, her songs, or the food she feeds by hand. I don’t know a father’s pampering or his scoldings."

"Even birds and animals protect their young under their wings and teach them about the world. I know nothing of that."

"You never appear as mother and father in any of my childhood memories. My aunt and uncle appear briefly. Not even once—not once—do you exist as a beautiful memory."

"You were not there when I needed you. I don’t need you now. My friends, my grandmother, and the other relatives around me, that’s enough."

"My mouth refuses to call you 'Amma.' My heart cannot accept it. This isn’t a movie where I can see you and immediately run into your arms. This is real life."

"Someone else dedicated their life to someone else. Not to me…"

"What is this love now? What are these words? What is this sudden longing for closeness?"

"My father may have been a great leader, as Grandmother says. His life may have been full of sacrifice. But he failed as a father. He may have built something for the kingdom he dreamed of, for an equal society. That was his choice. My question is.. what did he do for his son?"

"Should I feel proud that my parents were different from everyone else’s? Or should I feel sad that they mercilessly separated a ten-month-old infant from parental love?"

"As Grandmother said, there may have been circumstances and difficulties… you may have suffered for me… but I still cannot accept what you did."

He remembered the many arguments he had with his grandmother.

"Grandmother… all of you around me may have fulfilled my needs and raised me with love… but none of you can be my real parents."

"My younger brother and sister live with you. I also live with you. Why should I stay with my paternal grandmother or maternal grandmother? When I confronted you and asked if you didn’t love me, that’s when I learned I wasn’t their biological child. Yet they never let me feel any lack. They raised me with love."

"I remember the confusion I felt when my aunt told me the truth, the yearning to know about my birth, the constant pestering for photos of my parents…"

"Even then, you showed such patience. Love, Grandmother… for this grandson of yours!"

"Your son and daughter-in-law haven’t met for decades, yet your love for them remains undying. You never accept my harsh words. You simply brush them aside."

"I am only now beginning to understand how much you and my maternal grandmother suffered, not knowing whether your child was safe. Why don’t you say even one word against them, no matter how much I tormented you?"

"It’s been a year since your son was killed in an encounter. You hoped he would one day return and support your grandson. You waited so long. I know how your tired heart shattered with his death, Grandmother… I understand it all now."

"Your son’s encounter made headlines across the country. You stood like stone when you saw his body after three decades. But I know the agony in your heart."

"They brought the body after the post-mortem, but they didn’t let me see him. I know they did it to protect me. I was at my uncle’s house with my cousins. The photos and articles in The Hindu caught my eye every day. I watched the news on TV. A strange feeling stirred in my heart—anger, pain. Who could I share it with? Only one of my cousin knew a little…"

"The pitying looks from relatives… the comments I half-understood… they disturbed me deeply."

"I, who never tasted his love, feel this way. Grandmother, what must you have gone through…"

"Your son, who grew and spread as a tree, left home halfway through life… your dreams collapsed… you faced attacks on the house… and grandfather who merged into the wheel of time carrying that sorrow…"

"You, who turned your heart to stone and lived only for responsibilities and relationships…"

"Life is never the same. It is always changing. Thoughts change too. Somewhere, your eldest son is safe. You, who waited, hoping he would one day come looking for his mother and son, you are now gathering all your remaining strength for me, aren’t you? Grandmother, you are my world. Everyone else comes after you."

His gaze shifted from his grandmother to her. She had been staring at a photo in the album for a long time.

His mother’s heart swelled as she looked at a picture of her son receiving a cup at a state-level essay competition when he was twelve.

And then she said:

"We were not there for any part of your beautiful childhood. I don’t know what impressions were left on your young mind. I don’t know what lies in your heart."

"We share no warm embraces, no words spoken without barriers."

"I can see that you had a childhood filled with values. I don’t know what challenges you faced while growing up. I never saw your pure smiles. We existed only in imagination. We were far from your reality."

"It is every child’s right to have a happy, beautiful childhood. I hope you had that, my son… I pray there were no unbearable tragedies."

"They say a mother is a child’s first teacher. As parents, we could do nothing to help you grow into a good person, not just in values and responsibilities."

"But wherever you were, we only wished for a smile on your face, my dear boy."

"We kept you away so that the thorns and dangers of our path would not touch you. We wanted you to grow up in a loving family atmosphere."

"If you had been with us… we wouldn’t have known when a bullet might take your life… or what might reduce you to ashes. There was scarcity of food, of water. If you fell ill, it would have been far worse. Life there was a daily risk."

"Hours and days of walking. Crossing streams… climbing and descending mountains and forests…"

"All this so you wouldn’t have to face it…because we wanted you would be safe. We suppressed the deep, aching love a parent feelings and stayed away…we distanced ourselves from you were still nursing, we were fleeing for our lives…"

"Whenever I saw children your age, I would try to imagine how you might look now. How you had changed. It was beyond my imagination."

"In the system we lived in, there was no place for children."

"If any couple had a child, they had no choice but to send them away, just as we did. That was the rule. Children could not become obstacles to the revolution."

"In the eyes of the state, we were enemies of progress. Destructive elements. We lived under constant surveillance and restrictions. If we were spotted, bullets would rain down."

"I don’t know if you know, but your father… your father…"

"In truth, we were not bad people. We were soldiers dreaming of an egalitarian society."

"Our lives were filled with severe restrictions…"

"That was our chosen path… We turned our backs on a comfortable life, without caring about our parents’ wishes."

"At the same time, your birth should not have hindered us. Similarly, our life should not have hindered your future."

"We wanted your life to be whatever you chose. It was never because we didn’t love you, my son."

"I came here because I could no longer suppress a mother’s affection. I only wanted to see you—not to become a burden or responsibility."

Her gaze moved from the photo to her son.

Her outstretched hand looked at him with quiet hope.

There is no measure for a mother’s love, the love of a woman longing to know her son’s feelings and joys after being separated from his cradle.

To him, who had never known a mother’s bond, she appeared like a sculptor who had given him form and life.

The grandmother watched the mother and son, filled with conflicting emotions, with deep interest.

Whatever the storm of feelings raging inside him, he moved his hand.