Three Years Later
The quiet of the night wrapped itself around the small apartment like a soft blanket. The pale glow of the study lamp lit up Anika's desk, where her textbooks and notebooks were neatly stacked. She had been tidying up her notes in preparation for tomorrow — the start of her third semester in medical college. Outside, the city was hushed, only the occasional sound of a passing vehicle breaking the stillness.
Beside her bed, a small, warm body shifted under the blanket. Her two-and-a-half-year-old son stirred suddenly, a faint whimper escaping his lips before it grew into a full wail. Anika's heart tightened. She quickly pushed her chair back and rushed to him.
"What happened to little pudding?" she whispered, scooping him into her arms.
His small hands clung tightly to her nightdress, his cheeks damp with tears. She patted his back, rocking him gently, murmuring soft words.
"Amma is here… don't cry," she soothed, checking his arms and legs, his forehead, making sure nothing had startled or hurt him. His little face was still scrunched with distress, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.
"Little pudding, don't cry, baby," she murmured again, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
When his whimpers refused to settle, she shifted her shawl, loosened her clothes, and held him close to her chest. The moment he began to nurse, his breathing slowed, and the tension in his body began to melt away.
Anika's gaze softened as she watched his small, trusting face. But as the silence returned, so did the thoughts she tried to keep buried.
He was two and a half years old now — still fragile, still weak. The reasons were many, each one a wound she carried deeply.
She had been only sixteen when she gave birth to him — her body still young and unprepared. He was born prematurely, just seven and a half months into her pregnancy.
During her pregnancy, she had endured intense emotional turmoil, especially around the second month when her children's health was unstable.
And perhaps the most painful truth of all was this: he had not been alone in her womb.
Her other child — a beautiful baby girl — had been stillborn. She could still remember the moment the doctor showed her that tiny face. Perfect features, delicate lashes resting against pale cheeks. Gone before she had even taken her first breath. The memory was a constant ache, a shadow that followed her every day.
Some nights, the pain would overwhelm her, but she had forced herself to stand, to be strong. Her son needed her. He had not even called her "Amma" yet. He still needed her milk, her warmth, her presence. That was enough reason to keep breathing, even when the weight of everything threatened to crush her.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away.
She remembered those first months after giving birth. She had taken five months of medical leave — one month after the delivery, and four more to recover physically and gather the strength to return to college. Her body had barely healed, her mind even less so.
The rules had been clear — students stayed in the hostel. But she had gone to her dean, her voice trembling, and explained about her child. No one else in college knew. Only the dean. She couldn't bear to be away from her son, and he couldn't be without her.
Her dean had listened quietly, and instead of turning her away, he had handed her the key to a small apartment near the campus. It was his own property, and he refused to take rent from her.
From then on, she managed their lives carefully. She gave tuition to the children in the neighborhood — enough to buy food, medicine, and clothes. Every rupee was stretched to its limit, but she never complained.
Her son's small fingers brushed her skin, and she looked down. He had stopped feeding, a faint smile curving his lips as his eyes fluttered open. She tickled his cheek gently, and he giggled softly. Her heart melted.
The Next Morning
After dropping her son reluctantly at the daycare, Anika walked briskly to the college. Every time she left him, there was a pang in her chest. But she had to — for him, for their future.
The classroom was already alive with chatter when she stepped inside. She scanned the rows and found her usual spot. As always, Vennila was there, smiling brightly.
Anika nodded in greeting, and Vennila's face lit up.
Vennila had been her seat partner since the first semester. She was innocent, almost childlike — carefree in a way Anika couldn't be anymore. Perhaps that was why Anika felt so protective of her. Sometimes, when she looked at Vennila's cheerful face, she couldn't help but wonder… would her stillborn daughter have been like this? Naïve, giggly, unbothered by the world's darkness? The thought brought a sting to her eyes.
"Anu! You've become pretty again!" Vennila exclaimed suddenly, breaking her thoughts.
Anika blinked back the moisture in her eyes and forced a smile. "You're going to lose your mind one day."
Vennila clicked her tongue like a child, pouting.
"Wow, what a heart-warming moment," a voice drawled behind them. "If no one knew better, they'd say you're Anu's little daughter. Hey Sid, come see this!"
Anika lowered her gaze, hiding the sadness in her eyes.
It was Karthik — the class clown.
Sidharth rolled his eyes at him.
"You're annoying!" Vennila shot back.
"Thank you!" Karthik replied cheerfully, completely unbothered.
He was like that — teasing, relentless, always bouncing back no matter how many times she ignored him.
After College
When the last lecture ended, Anika was gathering her books when a familiar voice called her.
"Anu, come to my office," her dean said.
She followed him, her steps slowing slightly as memories of his kindness came flooding back.
Inside, he gestured for her to sit. "How's everything going?"
Anika smiled faintly. "Still manageable, uncle."
"And how is little pudding?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
Her eyes reddened instantly. "He's doing okay… still weak," she admitted, her voice trembling.
"My wife is missing that boy," he said with a small smile. "Bring him home someday."
She nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Thank you… uncle."
"Silly girl," he said, his voice warm. "You're like my daughter. This is the least I can do."
In that moment, the lump in her chest eased just a little.