The Warmth of Her Hands, The Cold of Distance

"Miss You, Mome"

By Amit Tamang

It was a quiet night at the army base. Stars blinked high above, but my eyes were lost in memories.

I sat alone, holding a small letter in my hand — old, crumpled, but precious. It was from Mome — my mother.

"Beta, khana time pe khana… aur thakaan ho toh thoda aaram karna."
("Son, eat on time… and rest when you're tired.")

Her words echoed in my mind like the lullabies she used to hum when I was a child. Far from my village, far from her lap, I felt a strange emptiness.

I remembered how she would wait by the door every evening, a steel plate in her hand, ready to feed me hot roti and curry. She never ate until I returned home.

Now, I eat in silence — in a steel army mess — surrounded by noise but feeling lonely.

I missed her scoldings, her soft hands on my forehead, her stories under the dim lantern light, and even the way she called my name — “Amit... khaana thanda ho raha hai.”

One day, I’ll return — not in uniform, not as a soldier — but as her little boy. I’ll sleep in her lap again. I’ll smell the smoke of her village kitchen. I’ll touch her feet and cry, just once, without shame.

But for now, I only whisper to the wind...
"Miss you, Mome."