December 2019 — Bengaluru, India

“Isaaar! We’re going to miss the school bus if you don’t finish your breakfast!” Her voice rang out from the kitchen, sharp enough to reach her son who sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes buried in his UKG book.

When no reply came, she dropped the spatula with a sigh and peeked into the living room. Their tiny rented 1BHK—just big enough to manage, just small enough to monitor him from anywhere—let her watch him easily.

She folded her arms, already knowing what the answer would be. “What are you doing?”

“Reading,” came his dry little voice without so much as a glance up.

“I can see that,” she raised her brows. “But why again? You’ve revised it n times, baby.”

At that, he finally looked up, frowning in concentration. “What is revise? And what is n times, Mama? Is it a number?”

Her heart softened instantly. He was always like this—curious, quiet, speaking only when something truly mattered. Once she had worried about his silence, about how he made no effort to befriend other children. But her colleagues assured her that some children bloomed late, that silent ones often proved sharp. And they were right.

He had learned quickly, faster than most. His words, his pronunciation, his understanding—sharper than any child she had known. He never asked for much, never demanded toys or sweets. His little heart already seemed to know the truth: his mother was struggling, juggling debts, teaching history at RMV School just to keep them afloat.

And though she told him his father was far away fighting monsters like a superhero, he never questioned it, never pressed her. To him, she was both father and mother—his only hero. He clung to her, protective, jealous even when she praised her students.

To impress her, he’d raced ahead in learning. From nursery he had leapt to UKG in six short months, leaving teachers and the principal themselves impressed. Now, with the school’s 25th anniversary approaching, he was determined to win the quiz competition.

She shook her head, hiding a smile, and sat beside him, placing the bowl in her lap as she began to feed him. “Revise means reading the same thing again to remember it well. And when you say n times, it means you’ve done it so many times you can’t even count.”

He listened seriously, nodded, then obeyed—stuffing the last bite of roti into his mouth before running off to wash up.

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RMV School, Indiranagar — Bengaluru

“Do well in the quiz, okay? And eat lunch with your friends.” She kissed both his chubby cheeks before leaving him at his classroom door. He only gave his usual quick nod, eyes already on the competition, but her smile lingered as she walked away.

In the staffroom, she collected her timetable and duties, offering polite greetings. The comments about her plain blue salwar, her “boring” clothes, brushed past her like wind against stone. Once, she had cared. Now, she chose to hold on only to the kindness of the few who mattered.

Hours slipped by in lessons and chatter, until afternoon arrived. With preparations for the school function waiting, she skipped her own lunch and walked toward the auditorium.

Halfway there, her old Nokia 105 trilled its sharp ringtone. She stopped dead. A genuine smile tugged at her lips as she answered.

But before she could say hello, a clipped, urgent voice snapped from the other end:

“He traced the address again. You have two hours—leave now! I’ve messaged you the hotel name and details.”

Her smile froze. Without replying, she hung up and broke into a run. Her footsteps carried her straight to the UKG classroom, where her little boy was beaming, holding up his quiz prize, the classroom echoing with his laughter.

Her heart ached as she watched him—so innocent, so proud, so unaware of the storm closing in again on his mother’s life.

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