Amma is still listening
Every evening
there was a journey home
a phone call to Amma.
Not merely a call,
but a quiet reassurance
that the world was still in place.
She knew my silences
better than my words.
She understood
the weight in my voice,
the worries I never named,
the world I carried within me.
Our conversations were never long.
They did not need to be.
After salaam,
I would ask,
"Sab theek hai?"
And in that familiar mellowness,
"How are Irfana and Zoya?"
Those few words
held an entire home.
Sometimes she would tell me
who had visited,
which neighbour was unwell,
whether the rains had come,
how is crops in the field,
or how the village
was breathing that day.
Nothing extraordinary.
Everything essential.
Amma never spoke
of her own strength.
Yet she was
our light,
our shelter,
our mountain—
standing quietly
between us
and every storm.
She carried conversations
between my father and me,
finding words
where silence had settled.
Later,
she became the bridge
between generations,
holding my daughter's tiny stories
with the same tenderness
she once held mine.
Now,
every evening,
when the sun disappeared
behind the horizon,
my hand still reaches
for the phone.
For a moment,
habit defeats grief.
I think,
"I should call Amma."
Then silence
gently reminds me
that some journeys
can no longer be made
by telephone.
Yet I know
our conversations
have not ended.
They have only
learned another language.
Now
I speak to her
through memory,
through prayer,
through the evening sky,
through the wind
that still carries
the scent of home.
And whenever
my heart whispers,
"Amma..."
I know,
somewhere beyond
time,
distance,
and farewell,
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