“When the Temple Bell Rings, I Miss Her More”

"The Last Cup of Tea – A Village Memory"

In the small village of Bhimtal, nestled between green hills and whispering trees, there stood an old mud house with a blue wooden door. That house belonged to my Mome.

Every morning, she would sit on the charpoy under the neem tree, her silver hair tied in a loose bun, and a cup of tea in her hand. The scent of lemongrass always drifted from her cup, mixing with the sounds of birds and the distant temple bell.

I used to run barefoot to her, shouting,
"Mome! Mome! Tell me the story of the rain cow again!"
And she would laugh. That soft, warm laugh that made everything feel okay.

She never wore gold. Just a faded red saree and the same smile every day. She would say,
"Life is not coming back, beta. So love deeply, forgive quickly, and smile often."

Now, I sit alone in that courtyard. The neem tree still stands, but the charpoy is empty.
I sip the tea she once made.
But it's not the same.
Nothing is the same.

I miss you, Mome.
This life... it really doesn't come back.

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