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"Please, don't leave me, don't leave us!Ruk ja, tere bina main kya karunga? Mere liye na sahi, baccho ke liye hi ruk ja!" (Stay, what will I do without you? If not for me, then at least for these children, please stay!)
My father's desperate pleas echoed through our home, but my mother remained resolute.
"Are you serious, Girish?" she spat, her voice venomous. "Why would I stop? You lied to me, and that's not all - you shattered my trust. I hate you, Girish. I hate you forever. I believed in you, trusted you with my everything, but you proved me wrong. You broke me in ways I never thought possible."
Tears streamed down my face as I watched my mother turn her back on us.
"Mom, please don't go!" I implored, clutching my 5-year-old brother, Rudra, tightly. "Please, Mom, see, Rudra is crying too! Please, for his sake..." My words fell on deaf ears.
Rudra's anguished cries pierced the air, and I held him closer, trying to comfort him as our mother walked away.
I clutched Rudra tightly, but his sobs only intensified. All he wanted was his mother, but his tears and cries weren't enough to stop her from leaving.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But... I can't keep doing this anymore. I'm not strong enough to keep going. Please, try to understand me."
Her hands cradled my face, her eyes pleading for empathy and comprehension. Her voice cracked under the weight of her emotions.
She kissed my forehead, her lips barely grazing my skin. The gentle touch belied the finality of her departure.
And then, she was gone.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Rudra's sobs slowly subsided, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
I stood frozen, holding my brother, as the weight of our new reality settled in.
3 years later...
I woke up with a start to a loud knock on the door, groggily opening my eyes to find it was already 6 a.m. I hastily threw off the covers and rushed to the kitchen.
"Aa rahi hun bhaiya, bas ek minute!" (Coming, give me a minute, please!) I shouted, grabbing the pot and hurrying to the main door.
I opened the door to find a middle-aged man standing there, a large drum in hand. He looked at me with a hint of impatience.
"Kitti der karti ho, bitiya? Aur bhi jagah jana hota hai dudh dene ko?" (How long will you take, child? There are other places to deliver milk to as well!)
I apologized, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Maaf kar dijiye, kaka." (Sorry, uncle.)
The milkman smiled kindly. "Choro, ye lo dudh." (Never mind, take the milk.)
