After spending some time in her magical space, Bani stepped out of her room. As expected, the TV blared from the living room, dramatic background music signaling yet another climax in her mother's favorite Hindi serial.
Her mother wasn't just a casual viewer—she was a devoted enthusiast. While others watched TV dramas to pass the time, she had turned it into a full-fledged hobby. The language barrier didn't matter; despite barely understanding Hindi, she gasped at shocking twists, blushed at romantic moments, and shook her head in disbelief at betrayals. But if anyone asked her to explain the plot, she would struggle to string it together.
Bani's brother found endless amusement in this.
"Who is this guy?"
"Wasn't he dead last episode?"
"Wait, why is she crying? Didn't she just marry the villain last week?"
Their mother, flustered but stubborn, would shush him and wave him away, eyes glued to the screen. Of course, his teasing only encouraged him further.
Their father and Bani sat back, watching the familiar routine unfold, a quiet warmth settling over the room.
Despite all the teasing, one thing was certain—no matter what, their mother would never give up her late-night dramas.
Bani sat on the familiar bamboo chair, its worn edges smooth from years of use. The gentle creak of the woven seat beneath her was a sound she had known since childhood.
This chair, along with a few others, had been a silent witness to countless family moments—morning tea discussions, evening rests after long days, and occasional arguments that echoed through their modest home.
Her mother didn't press the matter. She understood her daughter well—how Bani never truly wanted to watch but still sat beside her, sharing the moment in her own quiet way.
A faint growl from Bani's stomach betrayed her. She leaned back, stretching. "Mom, is dinner ready?"
Without a word, her mother grabbed the remote and dramatically paused the serial—leaving the main character frozen in mid-accusation, mouth wide open like a fish gasping for air. Then, without hurry, she stood and walked to the kitchen.
The sounds that followed were comforting in their familiarity—the clinking of utensils, the rhythmic chopping, the faint sizzle of something being warmed. These sounds had been the background score of Bani's childhood, more nostalgic than any song.
A few minutes later, her mother returned, holding a small plate of rice and dal. She placed it next to Bani with the same care one might use to set down a treasure chest.
"Here. Eat," she said simply. "I've made something light tonight."
Bani didn't need anything fancy. She smiled, sitting cross-legged on the chair, Picking up the food with her hands, she let the warmth sink into her fingers before taking the first bite. The simple flavors, the perfect balance of salt and spice—it was comfort in its purest form.
Her mother returned to watching her drama, but this time, she glanced at Bani occasionally, checking if she was eating well.
"How's the food?" she asked, eyes still on the screen.
"Tasty," Bani mumbled, her mouth full, her voice soft with contentment.