The Last Lunchbox

Every day at 12:30 PM, Ayaan would sit under the old neem tree outside his school gate, swinging his legs, waiting for his mother. Without fail, she'd arrive with his lunchbox, slightly out of breath, her dupatta soaked with sweat from the sun. She’d smile and say, “Garam rotiyaan laaye hoon, thanda mat hone dena.”

He never let them go cold.

Then came that one Wednesday.

Ayaan waited, swinging his legs as always, but this time… no footsteps, no warm lunchbox, no smile.

He waited until the school bell rang again, alone under the neem tree.

A teacher found him crying silently, his tiny fists clenched around the straps of his empty bag. They told him there’d been an accident. A speeding truck. A crowd. A scream.

He didn’t understand it fully then.

But the next day, he came to school with a cold lunchbox packed by his aunt. He didn’t sit under the tree. He sat in the classroom, staring at the untouched roti.

And whispered, “Thandi ho gayi, Ammi…”