"Sometimes, grief hides in the throat—waiting to become a song again."
It began with a hum.
Not loud. Not sure. Just a soft, trembled note that drifted through the kitchen like morning light.
Krish was in the hallway, retrieving the mop bucket when he heard it. At first, he thought it was the radio. But there was no music playing. No crackle of airwaves. Just a human hum, low and cracked like something ancient.
He turned slowly. Ma was by the stove, stirring lentils. And she was humming.
Not singing. Not even forming words. But humming.
He froze. Because it had been months since he'd heard that sound. His mother used to hum often— while cleaning, while cooking, sometimes even while staring out the window.
After Papa died, the humming stopped.
It was like someone had reached into her chest and pinched shut the part of her that knew melody.
But now, there it was. Quiet. Wavering. But real.
Krish didn't say anything. He walked to the back room, his breath caught between joy and ache.
He sat on the edge of the cot, and let the sound come to him.
The tune was familiar. Something old. Something Papa used to whistle in the garden— sometimes off-key, sometimes with exaggerated flair.
It wasn't just a song. It was a memory. A thread of who they had been before loss walked in.
Ma didn't notice him listening. She just moved through the kitchen, stirring, pouring, folding, as the tune slipped past her lips like breath she forgot she had been holding.
When it stopped, Krish didn't move. He sat with it. With the silence that followed.
And in that silence, he realized: she was healing, too. Not all at once. Not in big ways. But in notes. In hums. In tiny moments that sang when she wasn't guarding herself.
Later that evening, as they ate, he said, "You were humming today."
She paused. Looked down at her plate. Then smiled. "I didn't realize."
"It was the song Papa used to like."
She nodded. "I dreamed of him last night. He was sitting on the floor, peeling oranges, humming that tune. When I woke up, it was in my throat."
Krish didn't speak. He just reached across the table and squeezed her wrist.
The next day, she hummed again. This time while dusting the shelves. And Krish began to realize something: sound had returned to the house.
Not fully. Not constantly. But enough.
Later, he sat in his room, and wrote in his notebook:
"Dear Papa, Ma hummed today. Not to be heard, just because the song found her.
It was the one you used to sing when the power would go out and we'd all sit in the dark pretending we weren't afraid.
Do you remember how you used to tap your fingers on the floor like a drum? Do you remember how Ma would laugh when you sang the wrong words on purpose?
She hummed that today. And for a moment, the kitchen became a place of light again.
Love, Krish."
As the week passed, the humming grew stronger. Still soft, but more confident.
Ma even began singing lines— half-forgotten lyrics from old bhajans, snatches of lullabies she once sang to Krish as a child.
One afternoon, as she was kneading dough, she sang aloud, "Chanda mama door ke… puye pakaye boor ke..."
Krish looked up from his book. His eyes stung. He didn't stop her. Didn't interrupt. He just listened.
Because some songs don't need applause. They only need witnesses.
That night, he sat by her side on the verandah. The stars were faint, but the wind was kind.
"Will you sing it again?" he asked.
She looked surprised. Then laughed. "It's a children's song."
"I'm still your child," he said.
And so she sang. Full voice. Not perfect. But filled with something old and full of light.
And Krish— who once held his grief like a sealed envelope— let the sound unwrap him.
After she finished, he whispered, "Thank you."
She smiled. "Thank your father. He's the one who kept leaving music behind."
Krish looked at the sky.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't miss his father with pain. He missed him with gratitude.
Because in his absence, he had left echoes. And echoes, if we're quiet enough, can become songs again.