Unsaid Words - Hungry for Something Else
Unsaid Words - Hungry for Something
Else
He didn’t
know how to say it out loud, of course. He was only nine. But he felt it every
time he took the first bite of his grandmother’s sambhar rice, or the crispy
edge of dosa folded into a triangle, still hot from the iron tawa.
His name
was Rishi.
Rishi
didn’t speak much. Not because he was shy, but because no one in the house
really asked him anything beyond “Did you do your homework?” or “Where are your
slippers?”
But when
the food was good, he smiled more. He asked for seconds. Sometimes even thirds.
And when no one was watching, he’d close his eyes while chewing — like he was
listening to something inside the taste.
His
grandmother noticed. She always noticed.
She never
said much either. But she cooked extra when Rishi was around. A second
ladle of ghee on his rice. A smaller spoon of pickle, just the kind he liked —
not too spicy, with bits of lemon rind. She’d pretend it was accidental, but
Rishi knew. He always knew.
One
Afternoon — Exam Season
It was the
day before his Maths exam. The house was tense. His mother had just finished
ironing his uniform and was pacing around, muttering to herself about his
handwriting and how many marks he might lose for careless mistakes.
She made
dosa for lunch. Crisp on the edges, soft in the centre — just the way Rishi
liked. He sat on the floor, eating silently. When he finished his dosa, he
looked up hopefully and said, “Amma... one more?”
His
mother, already stressed and tired, snapped without turning around:
“Hey!
Go and study! Always thinking of eating, eating! That’s why you’re not scoring
well.”
The words
struck harder than she knew.
Rishi
didn’t ask again. He quietly folded his plate, washed his hands, and walked
back to his books.
But
something inside him went still — like a small door quietly closing. That
moment — the sudden shout, the hunger turned to shame — stayed with him far
longer than any exam result ever did.
But his
grandmother...
She never
raised her voice. Not even once. She didn’t scold him for eating more. In fact,
she seemed happiest when he was eating. It was her quiet way of loving —
through flavours, through extra helpings, through the spoon she handed him
without needing to be asked.
So Rishi
stayed close to her. And when the world felt too sharp or too fast, he’d sit by
her in the kitchen and just... exist.
One
evening…
The whole
house was quiet.
The lights
flickered once — power cut — and came back on. The TV buzzed back to life.
Somewhere, a pressure cooker whistled in another house. Rishi sat on the floor,
knees pulled to his chest. His grandmother was in the kitchen, moving slower
these days. Her back had started to curve like a comma — the kind you use when
you're not ready to end a sentence.
That
night, she made pongal. Not the festival kind. The simple, homey kind.
Soft, hot, with pepper and ghee and just a hint of cumin.
Rishi had
three servings.
And when
he finished, he looked at her for a long time — wanting to say something.
Anything. But he couldn’t find the words. Not “thank you,” because it didn’t
feel like enough. Not “I love you,” because that was something people said on
greeting cards and WhatsApp forwards, not at dining tables with steel plates
and rasam stains.
So he did
the only thing he could.
He took
her hand — small, wrinkled, smelling of turmeric and time — and held it for a
second. Just one.
And she
squeezed back.
They
didn’t say a word.
But in
that moment, everything unsaid was understood.
Years
later…
Rishi
stood in the same kitchen. Taller now. Thinner. Quieter in a different way.
The house
had changed. New tiles. A modern stove. But in the corner of the shelf sat an
old, dented steel box — her spice box — with the smell of her still locked
inside.
That day,
he cooked pongal for the first time by himself.
It wasn’t
perfect. But he ate it with closed eyes. And smiled.
And when
he looked at the empty chair across from him, he whispered —
“I
remember.”
Words
are powerful — but some of the deepest love is never spoken. And some wounds,
too, are created not by violence, but by the silence that follows after
shouting. Yet healing often begins in the smallest of gestures: a second
helping, a soft hand, a shared meal
#ShortStory
#UnsaidWords #HungryForSomethingElse #AdarshPriStories #HeartTouchingStory
#EmotionalStory #IndianKitchen #FamilyBond #GrandmotherLove #FoodAndLove
#EmotionalJourney #SilentLove #UnspokenWords #HealingThroughFood
#IndianShortStory #LoveThroughFood #SoulfulStory #StoryOfTheHeart
#NostalgicStory #SimpleMomentsBigFeelings
Comments
Post a Comment