"Her back never bent from burden. Only so her children wouldn't notice the weight she carried."
A Day That Begins in the Dark
Before the sky turned orange, before the birds began to stir, she was already awake.
Vikran's mother.
The floor was cold beneath her cracked heels as she folded the old blanket. She didn't sigh — there was no time for sighs.
She stepped outside with a bucket, eyes sharp despite the lack of sleep.
The cows lowed softly, waiting to be milked.
The goats shifted quietly in their pen.
The earth was damp from the early dew — a blessing.
She tied back her hair and got to work.
"If I rest, who will feed them?"
Not just the animals.
But her children.
Bread from Soil
Her morning didn't begin with breakfast — it began with labor.
After milking, she pulled on sandals and walked barefoot through the soft, uneven land behind the house.
She checked the vines, plucked the ripe ones, separated weeds from herbs. The bag she carried on her hip grew heavy.
By sunrise, she had gathered enough vegetables to sell — just enough to exchange for flour, oil, maybe tea.
And still, she drank only water before returning home.
A Mother's Quiet Tricks
Back in the kitchen, she prepared breakfast — two flatbreads and a single small bowl of chutney.
She placed three plates.
Vikran asked, "Aren't you eating?"
She smiled, waving her hand. "Already did, kanna. Early morning. You were asleep."
He didn't believe her.
His sister didn't either.
But they ate.
And she drank more water behind the curtain.
Not because she was thirsty.
Because it hid the hunger.
The Invisible Strength
After sending the children to school, she cleaned the house.
She patched curtain. Swept the floor. Fixed the rusting latch near the door.
Then she walked into town — a basket in one hand, a sack of vegetables balanced on her back.
She exchanged the day's harvest at a tiny stall for just enough.
No bargaining. No pride.
Just necessity.
A Roof That Shakes
That afternoon, clouds gathered. Thunder rolled across the sky like distant drums.
Inside the house, her eyes lifted to the ceiling.
The cement sheet roof held strong, but the edges rattled. She quickly checked each corner, securing loose cloth, dragging the goats closer to the wall.
She stood guard during the storm — not out of fear.
But so her children wouldn't be afraid.
A Life in Threads
When night fell, she took out a tin box filled with old clothes.
Some she mended for her daughter.
Some she would cut to size for Vikran.
Her own sari, frayed at the ends, she folded carefully — it would last another month.
She never complained. Never once said, "I wish we had more."
Because she believed:
"If I stay strong… they'll never feel poor."
A Moment of Truth
That night, while her children lay asleep, she sat in the corner with a candle.
Her hands trembled as she stitched. Not from cold.
From exhaustion.
Her stomach ached, empty. Her back burned. Her feet were sore.
But she smiled as she looked at them — Vikran curled up on one side, her daughter half-wrapped in a blanket.
"Just one more day, and they're safe again."
She whispered a silent prayer — not to gods, but to her own resolve.
"Let me carry the weight a little longer."
What Vikran Saw
Unknown to her, Vikran had stirred.
He watched from the shadows, unmoving, heart heavy.
He saw her fingers bleed from sewing.
He saw her hide her pain in silence.
He saw the truth she never let him speak.
Tears welled in his eyes — but he wiped them away.
He wouldn't cry.
Because if she could do all this…
He could too.
Final Line:
She wasn't a warrior with weapons.
But to Vikran, she was the strongest protector he had ever known.
And every night, as she stitched their future together, she unknowingly stitched a hero's soul into her son.
To be continued. .