Chapter 4: The First Meal Without Her

The next morning, the sun rose as it always had, a betrayal in itself. How could the world continue its daily rhythm when his had been shattered? Hunger, a basic, insistent animal need, eventually drove Anand from his hiding place behind the haystack. His stomach growled, a hollow echo in the cavern of his grief.

He walked into the kitchen, expecting a void, but it was occupied. His two elder sisters, Raji and Lakshmi, were there. A pot of rice sat on the cold stove. They stood aimlessly, looking at the ingredients as if they were foreign objects. Their mother had been the maestro of this small space; they had only ever been assistants, washing, peeling, fetching.

No one spoke. The silence was thick and awkward, broken only by the sniffle Lakshmi tried to hide. Raji finally moved, lighting the stove with clumsy fingers. She poured water into the pot, her movements sharp with a frustration born of helplessness.

Anand stood by the doorway, watching. He saw the uncertainty in their eyes. How much salt to add? When to temper the mustard seeds? The simple act of making a meal had become a monumental, painful task that highlighted her absence with every misstep.

Their brother, Muthu, entered, his face dark with a scowl. "Is the food not ready yet? I have to go."

"It's coming," Raji snapped, her voice strained.

The meal, when it was finally served, was a testament to their loss. The rice was overcooked and mushy. The sambar was watery and bland, lacking the complex, loving alchemy of his mother's touch. There were no crispy vadais, no flavorful poriyal. Just sustenance.

Anand sat in his usual spot, the space beside him yawning with emptiness. He picked up a morsel of rice, but it felt like mud in his mouth. He missed the taste of her love, the secret ingredient she infused into every grain. He looked at his father, who ate mechanically, his eyes fixed on his plate, not tasting, not seeing. He was a ghost at the table.

Muthu ate quickly, barely chewing, his mind already elsewhere. "It needs more salt," he muttered, pushing his plate away half-finished before stomping out.

Raji and Lakshmi ate in silence, their shoulders slumped. The kitchen, once the heart of the home, now felt like a morgue.

Anand forced the food down, each swallow a painful reminder. This was it. This was what life was now. A silent, tasteless, joyless ritual. The warmth was gone. The love was gone. All that remained was the hollow ache in his belly and the cavernous void in his heart.

He finished his meal and placed the plate in the sink. No one asked if he wanted more. No one smiled. No one wiped a stray grain of rice from his cheek.

He walked out of the kitchen, the bland taste of grief lingering on his tongue. He knew then that he wasn't just missing his mother's cooking. He was missing the nourishment of her soul, and he was starving to death in a house full of people.

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