It was not a good voice. It was a voice wrecked by guilt and love, raw and ugly. But as he sang, he felt her thumb move.
“Amma,” he whispered. His voice cracked. Amma Amma I Love You -Shaan-
“Amma Amma I love you… Kanmaniyae… Neeyendri Yaarumillai Amma…” It was not a good voice
“Amma Amma… I love you… Mazhaipeyum nerathil… ” “Amma,” he whispered
Tears slid down his cheeks, hot and shameful. He wasn’t a banker now. He wasn’t a man. He was just a boy who had forgotten to say the most important thing.
The rain hammered against the windows of the ICU waiting room, a relentless, arrhythmic beat that matched the chaos in Arjun’s chest. He was twenty-eight, a successful investment banker in New York, a man who negotiated million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But here, sitting on a hard plastic chair in a hospital in Kerala, he was five years old again. Small. Scared. Lost.
No response. Just the beep… beep… beep of the machine.