That week, it was just Achan and me at home. Amma had gone to be with my sister, who was pregnant. The house felt unusually quiet.
From my teenage years, I was never much of a talker with my parents. My mornings would begin only after they had left for work. Amma, as always, would leave food ready for me. I’d wake up late, eat slowly, and then spend the entire day in front of the TV. Just before they were due back, I’d rush to take a bath—pretending I’d been active all along.
But that day was different. I wasn’t feeling well.
I slowly got out of bed and went to the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. There wasn’t much—just a few slices of bread. I ate a bit and lay down again. My body felt tired, but more than that, I felt lonely. I missed Amma deeply. If she had been home, she would have noticed without me saying a word. She would have made kanji—warm rice porridge—and that simple yet comforting curd with crushed green chilies that she always gave me when I was unwell.
As I was drowning in those thoughts, I suddenly heard the sound of the front gate. My heart jumped. Achan had told me not to open the door for anyone. Still, curiosity got the better of me.
It was my aunt.
The moment I saw her, something in me lit up. I opened the door, and she asked gently, “How are you feeling?”
I just said, “Can you please make me some kanji?”
She didn’t ask anything more. She quietly walked into the kitchen and started cooking. Soon, the smell of boiling rice filled the house, wrapping me in warmth and comfort. That first spoon of kanji tasted like a mother’s hug. It wasn’t just food—it was love served warm, Amma’s care in another form.
That day, I truly believed what I’d always heard:
Sometimes, when you need them the most, God comes not in grand miracles—but through the simple kindness of the people who love us.
Much later, Amma told me over the phone—it was she who had asked my aunt to drop by, sensing somehow that I might need someone.
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