Abhinav Sinha
Chapter 1: Burnt Toast & Burnt Out
Samar Bajaj had never seen a toaster explode. Until now.
It was 7:42 AM on a perfectly miserable Monday morning in Bangalore. The rain was coming down like an overachiever, and Samar, dressed in a bathrobe and one sock, stood frozen in horror as his third toaster of the year smoked like a bonfire for ants.
He had tried to toast one slice of bread. Just one. But somehow, smoke had poured out, the fire alarm had shrieked awake, and his cat—who wasn’t his cat but kept showing up—leapt out the window.
His phone buzzed.
HR: “You’ve missed 3 daily stand-ups in a row. The team thinks you’ve been kidnapped or worse—joined Infosys. Fix it.”
Samar groaned. Being a senior software engineer at a multinational AI company sounded fancy. But the truth was this: he was a mess. His fridge held only expired ketchup and a suspicious egg. His shirts were all two sizes too tight. And his last attempt at cooking rice had ended with him googling “how to extinguish small domestic fires.”
He hadn’t spoken to a human being offline in 4 days. Unless you count yelling at the Swiggy delivery guy for forgetting his chutney.
As he opened the charred toaster to inspect the damage, the smell of carbonized carbs hit him like a truck.
“I’m dying,” he whispered, dramatically flopping onto the sofa.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Not Swiggy. Not Amazon. Not his landlord.
He peeked through the peephole. It was his neighbor, Mrs. Pereira, a retired English teacher with binocular vision and hearing sharp enough to detect a sneezed lie.
“I smelled death,” she said cheerfully, stepping into his smoky apartment. “Was it toast again?”
Samar nodded, coughing. “I think the toaster betrayed me.”
Mrs. Pereira looked around, her eyes landing on his laundry pile, unwashed dishes, and what looked like a colony of mushrooms in the corner.
“Samar,” she said gravely, “you need help. Like, maternal help.”
“I have a mother,” he protested.
“She lives in Pune and thinks your name is ‘beta.’ That doesn’t count.”
She took out her phone. “You need this app. It’s called ‘Rent-a-Parent.’ I used it for my nephew. Transformed his life. Now he wears ironed underwear.”
Samar blinked. “That’s… a thing?”
“Oh yes. Freelance mothers. Nannies for grown-ups. You get home-cooked food, life advice, and passive-aggressive judgement—all in one package.”
He scoffed. “I don’t need a mom. I need a break.”
But that night, as he stood in front of his open fridge eating butter straight from the pack, the idea haunted him.
By Tuesday evening, Samar found himself scrolling through the Rent-a-Parent app. It was filled with listings like:
- “Anita M., 60 – Will pack your tiffin and your guilt.”
- “Kiran Aunty – North Indian meals + nosy advice, 4.9 stars.”
- “Saraswati Ma – Comes with a rolling pin and life wisdom.”
But one profile stood out.
Mrs. Kusum Joshi – 58
“Ex-school principal. Specializes in lazy bachelors. Will bring order, food, and a side of unsolicited matchmaking.”
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (1,271 reviews)
Samar stared. She looked strict. Glasses, hair in a bun, steel tiffin in her profile photo.
Perfect.
He tapped Book Now.
The next morning, the doorbell rang at 6:30 AM sharp.
He opened the door with crusty eyes and a crumpled tee.
There she stood—Mrs. Kusum Joshi, in a neatly pleated cotton saree, holding a thermos and a stare that could melt glaciers.
“You must be Samar,” she said. “You look like an unsupervised cupboard.”
Samar blinked. “Umm… I guess.”
“Don’t guess. Be sure. I’m here to fix your life.”
And just like that, she walked in, took off her sandals at the door, and declared, “Where’s your kitchen? And please don’t say ‘somewhere under that pizza box.’”
Samar had no idea what he’d just signed up for.
But something told him—this wasn’t going to be just about roti and dal.
It was the beginning of something bigger.
Something scarier.
Something spicier.
Something like…
Chapter 2: The Tiffin Invasion
Samar had forgotten what real food tasted like.
Until now.
At exactly 8:00 AM, his one-bedroom apartment was transformed into what could only be described as a mobile gurudwara langar. Daal, rice, chapati, sabzi, and something called “pre-digestion jeera water” were neatly arranged in shiny steel tiffin boxes on his dining table — a table he hadn’t used since 2019.
Mrs. Kusum Joshi stood in the kitchen like a general before battle, arms folded, eyes scanning every corner with tactical precision.
“You don’t own a pressure cooker?” she asked, scandalized.
“I do,” Samar muttered. “It just doesn’t whistle anymore.”
“That’s not a pressure cooker. That’s a dangerous lid with delusions of grandeur.”
She didn’t just feed him. She inspected how he ate. She judged his posture. She wiped his mouth mid-bite. She sprinkled chaat masala like a finishing move. And then, while he was still chewing his third roti, she handed him a paper.
“What’s this?”
“Your weekly life schedule. Wake-up time, work hours, laundry slot, hair oiling frequency. I’ve also added time for ‘aimless ceiling staring’ because I know how your generation operates.”
Samar stared at the schedule in horror. “Ma’am, I’m a grown man.”
Kusum nodded solemnly. “I know. That’s why I added a ten-minute ‘identity crisis break’ every Wednesday.”
By midweek, things got stranger.
She brought him tiffins to work. To work. In person. Wearing sunglasses and a salwar suit with “Mom on a Mission” embroidered on the bag.
At first, his colleagues thought it was a prank. Then they started placing orders.
By Thursday, half his team was eating out of his dabba.
Even the boss came over to say, “I hear your mother is now feeding the whole floor. What’s her hourly rate?”
Samar tried to protest. But the food was too good.
Too warm.
Too… motherly.
And it wasn’t just food.
She took over his wardrobe too.
“You own twelve t-shirts,” she said. “Seven of them say things like ‘Procrastinators Unite… Tomorrow’. We are burning these.”
She replaced them with sensible shirts in pastel colors and iron-worthy material. One had a small embroidered peacock.
When Samar protested, she replied, “You’ll thank me when a girl finally smiles at your collar.”
But the real battle began on Friday night.
Samar was planning to meet his college friends for a reunion. Burgers, beer, late-night banter.
At 6:00 PM sharp, Kusum blocked the door like a bouncer.
“You’re wearing this?” she asked, staring at his crumpled jeans and T-shirt that said 404: Sleep Not Found.
“I’m just going to hang out with the guys.”
“Not on an empty stomach, you’re not. You’ll get acidity. I’ve made dahi kebabs and veg biryani. Sit.”
“Ma’am, I’m 32!”
“Exactly. That’s when metabolism starts to betray you.”
He sat.
He ate.
He missed the party by 40 minutes, arrived wearing pastel blue, and was lovingly teased by everyone.
They called him “Maa ka Freelancer.”
But something strange began to happen by Sunday.
His clothes were washed. Folded. Ironed.
His kitchen smelled like cardamom and not despair.
His hair looked less like a haystack.
His team lead smiled during meetings.
And Samar, for the first time in a year, slept before midnight without scrolling through 200 Reels of dogs baking cakes.
He felt… weirdly happy.
Until—
Ring ring.
His phone buzzed with a notification from Kusum’s number. She had sent a spreadsheet.
“Potential Life Partners – Ranked by Family Values and Astrological Alignment.”
Samar screamed.
From the kitchen, Kusum shouted back, “Just window shopping, beta! Swipe slowly.”
And just like that, the tiffin invasion became a full-scale maternal occupation.
But deep down, somewhere between the jeera rice and life lecture #19, Samar knew—
He wasn’t fighting back anymore.
He was enjoying it.
Chapter 3: The Grooming of a Grown Man
Samar Bajaj, once a proud mess of a man, was now being moisturized against his will.
It started subtly—a bottle of almond oil mysteriously appeared in his bathroom with a note taped to it:
“Massage into scalp. Think of your future hairline.”
Then came the face wash with orange beads, the detan cream, and finally, a loofah—a word Samar had previously thought was a French pastry.
“You smell like software,” Mrs. Kusum Joshi declared one morning. “We’re upgrading you to human.”
She had taken it upon herself to groom him like a reluctant poodle.
“You will bathe before 9 AM. Not just rinse. Full shampoo. Armpits too. I will ask.”
“You will not wear socks with holes unless you want to be single forever.”
“You will stop hoarding hotel soaps like a 90s villain.”
Samar grunted. “This is grooming or torture?”
“Same thing. Just with conditioner,” she replied.
The biggest shock came when she announced they were going shopping.
“Shopping? Like outside?”
“Yes, Beta. Your wardrobe looks like it belongs to a washed-up DJ who moonlights as a tech bro.”
Samar tried to hide behind his bean bag. It didn’t work.
At the local mall, chaos ensued.
Kusum moved through stores with military precision. She argued with cashiers, pinched fabric like a saree connoisseur, and made five college girls move aside in a trial room queue because “this boy needs help.”
She picked shirts that had structure. Pants that fit. Belts that matched. She even got him shoes that weren’t rubber sliders.
The final straw?
She made him try on a kurta. With buttons. And a pastel pocket square.
Samar stared at his reflection.
“Why do I look like I’m about to give a TED Talk on arranged marriage?”
“That’s called respectable. Women will see this and think ‘oh, he files his taxes.’”
Samar sighed. But secretly, he liked it.
The changes didn’t go unnoticed.
His neighbors stopped offering him leftover food.
His office cleaner asked if he was expecting a promotion.
And Tanya from HR, who hadn’t acknowledged his existence in three years, said:
“Nice kurta. Are you fasting for attention?”
But not everything was sunshine and haldi milk.
Samar had been keeping a secret.
He had been ignoring the matchmaking spreadsheet Kusum had sent him—detailing the lives, ambitions, and star signs of 36 eligible women. All neatly ranked. Color-coded. With hyperlinks.
Every day, she dropped not-so-subtle hints.
“So… did you look at girl #7? The one who likes gardening and silence? I think silence would suit you.”
“Did you know girl #13 cooks without garlic and has a Labrador? See? Perfect match. Both won’t talk much but will love unconditionally.”
One evening, she even held a mock Swayamvar with printed headshots and chits.
Samar snapped. “Ma’am, please. I hired a mom, not a wedding planner!”
Kusum didn’t flinch. “Beta, every mother is a wedding planner in disguise.”
But then… something changed.
One evening, Samar found Kusum sitting quietly on the balcony, her steel tiffins untouched. She was holding an old photo—a young boy in a school uniform. Her son. The one who lived in Canada. The one she hadn’t seen in four years.
Samar didn’t say anything. He just sat beside her.
For the first time, there was no nagging. No advice. Just shared silence.
The next morning, she made him halwa.
No lectures. Just halwa.
Samar asked softly, “What’s the occasion?”
She smiled, eyes warm but distant. “Sometimes, it’s enough that you’re just… here.”
And so, amidst the shampoos, tiffins, and outfit upgrades, Samar realized:
He hadn’t just hired a mother.
He’d found something harder to define.
Softer. Warmer. Realer.
A kind of care that didn’t come with an invoice.
Chapter 4: Matchmaking & Miscommunication
It started with a knock.
Not the dramatic, someone’s-dead kind. More like a polite tap on the door followed by the unmistakable sound of sandals and sweet expectations.
Samar opened the door to find Mrs. Kusum Joshi standing beside a young woman in a pink kurta, holding a tiffin box, and looking like she’d rather be inside a dentist’s waiting room.
“This is Priyanka,” Kusum announced, beaming. “She’s Girl #9 from the spreadsheet. Her chhole is as good as her MBA.”
Samar blinked. “Wait. What? You invited her here?”
“Of course. How else will you marry her? Through CAPTCHA codes?”
Samar pulled Kusum aside, whispering urgently. “Ma’am, I’m not ready to meet potential wives over daal!”
“You’re never ready, beta. That’s why I bring snacks.”
Priyanka, to her credit, was composed. She sat down at the dining table like someone who had been in this warzone before.
Samar, nervously sipping water, asked, “So… uh… what do you do?”
“I work in digital marketing,” she said. “And occasionally, in hostage negotiation. Like now.”
Kusum coughed meaningfully.
Priyanka smiled. “Don’t worry. Your rented mom briefed me.”
Samar groaned. “Oh god. What did she say?”
“That you were kind, hopeless with electronics, allergic to commitment but possibly cute in a kurta.”
He stared at Kusum. “You said possibly?”
“I didn’t want to oversell you,” she said sweetly, adjusting her dupatta.
The tiffin was opened. Chhole was served. Samar tried not to choke on every bite. Priyanka asked about his job, his hobbies, and whether he believed in saving money or investing in Maggi-based crypto.
To everyone’s surprise—the two actually laughed. A lot.
Until Kusum returned from the kitchen and casually dropped:
“I’ve already spoken to your astrologer. The stars are aligned. Unless you’re hiding a criminal record, we’re good to go.”
The room froze.
Priyanka stood. “Thank you for the food. And the forecast. I’ll… see myself out.”
She left with the grace of someone used to fleeing arranged-date ambushes.
Samar exploded. “What was THAT?”
Kusum looked wounded. “I was trying to help!”
“Help? You ambushed me with a woman and star charts!”
“You liked her!”
“I could have! If you hadn’t turned the living room into marriage kabaddi!”
Kusum’s face tightened. “You said you wanted to grow up. This is part of growing up.”
Samar’s voice dropped. “No. This is part of you trying to control everything. You’re not my real mother.”
The silence was thick.
Kusum nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
She walked to her room, quietly shut the door, and for the first time since she arrived, no lunch was packed the next morning.
The apartment felt empty.
Samar reheated two-day-old rajma that tasted like regret.
No smell of cardamom. No morning reminder to wear socks. No nagging about posture or emotional stability.
He stared at the spreadsheet still sitting on the fridge with Girl #9’s name circled in green.
And he realized…
Maybe he hadn’t hired a mother.
Maybe he’d let one in.
Later that evening, he knocked on her door.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked up from her knitting. “For which part? The shouting, the criminal record joke, or the Maggi coin insult?”
He grinned sheepishly. “All of the above.”
She patted the seat beside her. “Sit. I made halwa.”
And as they sat side by side, silently eating something warm and too sweet, Samar knew—
This wasn’t just a chapter in his life.
It was the beginning of a much messier, softer, wonderfully complicated one.
Chapter 5: Bachelor of the Year
Samar Bajaj had never been called “eligible.”
Not by women.
Not by relatives.
Not even by his old school principal, who once wrote in his report card:
“Nice boy. Unlikely to survive on his own.”
But things had changed.
He now smelled like eucalyptus soap.
His fridge contained actual food groups.
And someone in his apartment building had started referring to him as “that decent boy with the smiling mother.”
Only… Mrs. Kusum Joshi wasn’t his mother.
Not officially.
But that didn’t stop her from filling that role with the confidence of an Oscar-winning actress.
The transformation became a full-blown legend after the Housing Society Annual Day.
Every year, Emerald Heights held a talent night where people danced awkwardly, sang off-key, and forcibly socialized over oily samosas.
Samar usually skipped it.
This year? Kusum volunteered him.
“You’re doing stand-up comedy,” she announced, ironing his kurta like a general prepping battle armor.
“Ma’am, I can’t even make eye contact with my building guard.”
“Perfect. Start with that. Just make jokes about yourself. People love a man who can laugh at his failures. It’s all you have, anyway.”
On the day of the event, Samar stood backstage with a mic in his sweaty hand, breathing like someone being hunted.
“Deep breaths,” Kusum whispered. “Also, if you pee on stage, walk off slowly. Maintain dignity.”
He walked onstage to scattered applause and blinding tube lights.
And then… something magical happened.
He started with a story about burning toast.
Then moved on to how he accidentally downloaded malware trying to install a rice cooker manual.
By the time he reached the punchline about how his own rented mother saved his life by labeling all his Tupperware, the crowd was roaring.
People were crying with laughter.
One aunty shouted, “BETA, YOU SHOULD DO A PODCAST!”
Afterward, Samar returned to find Kusum standing near the tea stall, smug and smiling.
“You were good.”
“You think?”
“Don’t get used to it. Fame spoils boys. So does attention. And free tea.”
They clinked paper cups like battle survivors.
But the real shocker came two days later.
Kusum was sipping her morning chai, reading the society newsletter. She suddenly gasped.
“Samar! Look!”
There, printed in bold Comic Sans:
“Bachelor of the Year: Samar Bajaj”
Awarded for Personal Growth, Humor, and Unusual Fridge Hygiene.
Samar choked on his toast.
“There’s… an award?”
Kusum smiled. “There is now.”
Later that day, he got a call from Priyanka—Girl #9.
“I heard you got famous. Also… my mom saw your comedy clip and now thinks you’re sensitive. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Samar grinned. “Too late.”
She paused. “Wanna get coffee sometime? No astrology. No spreadsheets.”
He looked over at Kusum, who was eavesdropping with a spoon frozen mid-air.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
As he hung up, Kusum raised an eyebrow. “Girl #9?”
“No numbers this time,” he said. “Just names. And coffee.”
She smiled. “Good. Now eat your karela.”
“I just got Bachelor of the Year!”
“And you’ll lose it if your cholesterol spikes.”
That night, Samar looked around his once lonely apartment—now filled with spice jars, sock organizers, and a woman who called him “beta” when she was proud and “baba” when she was annoyed.
And he thought to himself:
He may not have asked for a mother.
But somehow…
she became exactly what he needed.
Chapter 6: The Canadian Son Crisis
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when the doorbell rang.
Samar expected a courier, or maybe the neighbor’s kid returning his cricket ball (again).
Instead, standing at the threshold was a tall man in Ray-Bans, holding a suitcase and a bouquet of resentment.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Kusum Joshi,” he said flatly.
Samar blinked. “She’s… inside. Can I say who’s—?”
“I’m her son. From Toronto.”
The door hadn’t even fully shut behind him when the verbal fireworks began.
“Ma, what is this? You joined some parent rental app?”
Kusum looked up from her knitting, calm as a cucumber. “Hello, Rahul. Yes, I did. And before you ask, no, I’m not running a cult. Just a kitchen.”
“You’re living with a stranger. A bachelor. In Bangalore!”
“Better than living alone with a fridge full of expired chutney.”
Samar stood awkwardly, unsure whether to offer tea or hide behind the curtains.
“Look, Ma,” Rahul said, pacing the living room. “I get it. I haven’t been around much. But this? You moved in with… with a software engineer who can’t iron a shirt without setting off a smoke alarm!”
“Actually, I’ve improved,” Samar mumbled. “She taught me how to de-fuzz sweaters.”
“Not helping,” Rahul snapped.
Kusum stood up. “Beta, sit down. I made mango pickle.”
“You fed him pickle?”
“I fed him purpose.”
It was less of a family reunion and more of a cross-cultural custody battle.
Samar, caught in the middle, tried to explain. “She saved my life. Literally. I was about to eat a week-old samosa when she showed up.”
Rahul crossed his arms. “She’s my mother.”
“And now she has bandwidth for both of us,” Samar said. “5G mom.”
That night, the apartment was tense.
Three people.
Two mothers worth of emotions.
And only one bathroom.
At dinner, Kusum served bitter gourd with rice. Rahul poked at it like it was evidence.
“I flew 14 hours and you made karela?”
Kusum smiled. “Welcome home.”
The next day, Rahul insisted on taking her back to Pune.
“Ma, you’ve done enough here. Time to come home. Let this guy go back to eating noodles out of mugs.”
Samar stayed quiet.
Kusum finally turned to him. “Do you want me to leave?”
There was a long silence. Samar looked at the ground, then up at her. “Only if you think your job here is done.”
Kusum exhaled slowly. “I don’t think it’s a job anymore.”
That evening, all three of them sat on the balcony—Rahul still sulking, Samar quietly grateful, and Kusum knitting a muffler for “emotional warmth.”
She finally spoke. “I’m not leaving either of you. I’ll visit Pune. I’ll visit Canada. But for now, I choose here. And if you both want to fight, at least fight after dinner.”
That night, Samar found a note on his desk.
Beta,
You’ve grown. Not just in waist size.
Thank you for reminding me I’m not just a mother by birth—
I can be one by choice.
—Kusum
Somewhere in the kitchen, the pressure cooker whistled.
And for the first time in a long time, Samar felt like he was home.
Chapter 7: MaWorks Goes Viral
By now, Kusum Joshi was more than just Samar’s rented mother. She was the unofficial mom of Emerald Heights, the society, and—if Google Reviews was to be believed—the internet.
It began innocently.
One day, Samar posted a reel on Instagram titled:
“How My Life Got Hijacked by a Rented Mother”
featuring clips of Kusum bossing him around, feeding him karela, folding his underwear, and replacing his diet coke with buttermilk.
He expected five likes.
Maybe ten.
It hit two million views by morning.
Suddenly, the comments section was full of:
“Where can I get one?!?”
“Kusum Aunty for PM!”
“I want her to slap me with a wet towel and fix my life.”
“Does she do international delivery?”
Samar watched in horror as the views climbed, and Kusum calmly stirred her dal in the background like she didn’t just become India’s most desirable maternal figure.
Then came the emails.
- NDTV wanted a “Feel Good of the Week”
- Shark Tank wanted her to pitch a startup for emotional caregiving.
- A confused man from Iceland offered to marry her “so he could taste her roti once.”
And so, at the age of 58, Mrs. Kusum Joshi did the unthinkable.
She launched a startup.
MaWorks: Mothers Who Mean Business
“Because not everyone is born lucky. Some have to rent affection too.”
Samar helped build the website.
It had dropdown filters like:
- Cuisine preference (North Indian / South Indian / Emotional Support Only)
- Scolding intensity (Mild / Medium / Trauma-Inducing)
- Skillset (Cooking / Life Coaching / “Where’s My Belt?”)
She recruited other retired mothers, widows, and homemakers.
Women who once cried over being “empty nesters” were now CEO-level mentors.
Kusum trained them.
“How to detect lies through body language.”
“How to handle grown men who still say ‘bro’ too much.”
“How to balance love with paratha.”
Within weeks, MaWorks was trending.
Kusum appeared on a podcast called “Mompreneur Diaries.”
She wore sunglasses. Said things like “We scale through empathy.”
Samar had to sit down.
Of course, the media storm brought uninvited guests.
Samar’s college friends showed up pretending to be in need just to score home-cooked food.
His manager requested MaWorks for an on-site “Mother Booth” to reduce employee burnout.
Even Rahul, the skeptical son from Canada, became the official CFO.
“We’ll offer subscription packages,” he muttered, adjusting his spreadsheets. “Basic, Premium, and Gold Samosa Tier.”
One day, Samar walked in to find Kusum practicing her TED Talk in front of the mirror.
“The future is not tech. It’s touch,” she declared, striking a pose. “Also, always carry wet wipes.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re a brand now.”
She smirked. “Better than being a forgotten mummy with a pickle jar and WhatsApp group trauma.”
But amidst all the success, something quiet bloomed.
Samar no longer felt like a helpless bachelor.
He had a routine. A home. A sense of self.
Even Priyanka—Girl #9—was still texting him, sometimes even without emoji.
One night, as he folded laundry (correctly!), Kusum walked in with two steaming mugs of haldi milk.
“You did good, beta.”
He smiled. “We did.”
She added, “Now remember—MaWorks has a brand reputation to protect. So wear clean socks. Always.” And as the world clapped for India’s first emotional-tech startup, Samar knew one thing for certain:
He didn’t just get a rented mother.
He got a revolution.
Chapter 8: Exit Plan
Samar Bajaj had never packed a suitcase with pickles before.
But here he was, kneeling on the floor, carefully bubble-wrapping six glass jars labeled:
- Spicy Mango – No Garlic
- Green Chilli – Handle With Caution
- Sweet Lemon – For Priyanka Only
Across from him, Mrs. Kusum Joshi was giving instructions like a customs officer with emotional baggage.
“Keep the lids tight. Canadian airports have no respect for our aam ka achaar.”
Rahul, suitcase open, nodded as if he were smuggling state secrets.
After a year of laughter, life lessons, and a start-up that somehow combined rotis with revolution, Kusum was leaving.
Not forever. But for a sabbatical in Toronto, to spend time with her real son. The one she’d been training for years via video calls, WhatsApp threats, and long-distance emotional blackmail.
Samar stood in the corner, unusually quiet.
Kusum noticed. “Don’t make that face. You look like a rejected paratha.”
He smiled weakly. “I just… can’t believe it. You’re going.”
“I came when you needed me. Now he does. But I’ll be back. Someone has to make sure your shirts are folded properly.”
As they reached the cab, Kusum handed Samar an envelope. “Don’t open this till I’m gone.”
Rahul rolled his eyes. “Is it emotional manipulation again or one of your turmeric hacks?”
“Both,” she said proudly.
She hugged Samar. Long. Firm. The kind that healed weird childhood stuff you didn’t know you had.
Then she got in the cab, window rolled down.
“Eat on time. Text Priyanka. And if you forget how to make khichdi, remember—pressure cooker on two whistles. No more.”
As the car disappeared down the road, Samar walked back upstairs, sat on the sofa, and opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note:
Beta,
Mothers don’t retire.
They just change time zones.
You were never alone.
You were just waiting to be seen.
And remember—if your heart ever burns, check the gas first. Then talk to someone.
Love,
Maa (on Demand, now Export Quality)
Next to the note was a laminated “MaWorks Lifetime Membership Card” with his name embossed in golden ink.
That evening, Samar cooked dinner all by himself. No fire. No chaos.
Just a warm bowl of dal, one candle, and a video call with Priyanka, who laughed as he narrated the entire pickle-wrapping incident.
Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window.
And inside, surrounded by quiet order and leftover karela, Samar finally understood—
Some homes aren’t built with bricks.
They’re built with people who nag you into becoming yourself.
THE END
