Shindu lowered his head.
There was no reproach in those words, only truth.
She turned her gaze toward the road in front of the house. The yard was waking up. A bread seller pushed his cart down the street, calling out loudly. Two children ran past the gate laughing. An old bus honked as it turned the corner.
Life continued as though nothing from the previous night had ever happened.
“But sometimes,” she said slowly, “truth appears only when someone returns unexpectedly.”
Shindu followed his mother’s gaze.
The iron gate was there.
The night before, at that very spot, his mother had been curled up on a thin mat under heavy rain, only a few steps from the house, yet as far away as two different worlds.
He stood up and walked to the door. The mat was still there, neatly folded in the corner against the wall. He bent down and picked it up.
The mat was light, but in his hands it felt heavy like a memory he would never forget.
He turned to look at his mother. She was still sitting on the porch, the morning light falling on a face that had passed through long years — no longer exhausted like the previous night, only peaceful.
Shindu carried the mat inside the house.
He knew there were things in this house that had to change — not the furniture, not the layout, but the way people treated one another.
He placed the mat in a corner of the room and then returned to sit beside his mother. They both continued drinking their tea.
