That Day I Lost My Mother: A Tearful Morning
I Finally Did It Amma, I Know You Are Praising Me In Heaven
In a small village named Bhairavpur, surrounded by dusty roads and mustard fields, I lived with my mother. My name is Raju. I was 18 years old, thin, quiet, and I didn’t talk much to others. But there was one person I loved more than anyone else—my mother, Shanti.
My childhood was full of pain. My father, Ramesh, was a drunk. Every night, he came home shouting and beating my mother. Sometimes, he beat me too. The villagers heard our cries, but no one helped. My mother never said anything bad about him. She just hugged me after the beating stopped and whispered, “Everything will be okay, beta. One day, we will be free.”
When I was 12, my father became very sick. The doctor in the nearby town said he had cancer. We had no money for treatment. My mother borrowed some money, but it was not enough. After six months of pain, he died. I did not cry. I just sat near my mother. She looked sad but also a little peaceful. Life was still hard, but at least there was no more shouting or beating.
After that, my mother worked very hard to earn money. She worked in the fields, cleaned houses, washed clothes, and sometimes walked to the nearby town to work in a small hotel. She earned very little, but every rupee she saved was for me. She always said, “You will become something one day. You will study, leave this village, and have a better life.”
I wanted to make her proud. I studied day and night. I woke up early, helped her with work, then went to school. At night, I studied under a small lantern. She would sit near me, rub my head, and sometimes fall asleep beside me.
Then came March. It was time for my board exams. I had prepared for this for many years. I wanted to do well, go to college, and get a good job so my mother wouldn’t have to work anymore.
The night before my first exam, we ate a simple dinner—roti and aloo sabzi. My mother smiled and said, “My son will do great tomorrow. I am so proud of you.” I touched her feet and said, “Maa, everything I do is for you.”
That night, she coughed a little. She said she was just tired. I helped her lie down and covered her with a blanket. “Goodnight, Maa,” I said.
Next morning, I woke up early. The sun was not fully out. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and wore my school uniform. I made tea for my mother like she always did for me.
“Maa, get up,” I said softly.
She didn’t move.
I called again, louder this time. “Maa!”
Still no answer. I touched her hand. It was cold. Her face looked peaceful, like she was sleeping. But I knew something was wrong. I shook her. “Maa! Please get up! Today is my exam. You said you would come with me!”
She didn’t wake up.
I ran out of the house, crying and shouting. Neighbors came running. One woman checked her and looked at me with tears in her eyes. “She is gone, beta. Your mother is no more.”
My world broke.
I screamed. I cried. I held her and begged her to come back. “Don’t leave me, Maa. You said we will be happy one day. How can I live without you?”
The villagers came. Some tried to comfort me, some cried too. An old man named Hari kaka said, “She was a strong woman. She lived for her son. She left this world with peace in her heart.”
It was 7:30 AM. My exam was at 9.
Some people said I should stay home. They said I should rest and cry. But Hari kaka said, “No. She wanted him to write this exam. If he misses this, her struggle will be wasted.”
Two women helped me wash my face. One gave me milk. Another gave me her son’s pen. Someone brought a bicycle.
I didn’t want to go. I felt nothing. I was empty. But I remembered her words: “You will become something one day.”
I looked at her one last time and said softly, “Maa, I am going. Give me your blessings.”
Tears ran down my face as I sat on the bicycle. Hari kaka rode me to the exam center in the nearby town. The road was rough, the air was cold, and my eyes were full of tears.
We reached just in time. A teacher looked at me with sad eyes but didn’t say anything. I sat at my bench, looked at the question paper, and for a few seconds, my mind went blank.
Then I saw her smile in my mind. I felt her hand on my head. I picked up my pen and started writing.
Every answer I wrote was for her.
After the exam, I left the hall and cried again. Hari kaka hugged me tightly.
That evening, I lit the pyre. The fire went high. With it, all the love and pain rose into the sky. I stood there, silent, while others around me cried and prayed.
The next days were full of pain. But I went to every exam. Every morning, I cried. Every night, I slept holding her old saree. Our house was silent, but full of her memories.
Months passed. The exam results came.
I passed with distinction.
The whole village was happy. People came to congratulate me. But I did not smile. I took my result card, walked to the neem tree where we buried her ashes, and placed it there.
“Maa, I did it. But without you, it means nothing,” I whispered.
The wind blew softly. The leaves moved gently. It felt like she was there.
I sat there for a long time, crying silently.
Because some dreams come true, but the people you want to share them with are not there anymore.
And that kind of success hurts the most.
THE END “Comment For Part 2”
She Leave Me For a Poor Guy: Read Full Story Here
