The Big Mistake

By Anshul Purvia

The house buzzed with celebration. It was my parents’ 30th wedding anniversary. Three decades of love, fights, and life lived side by side. To top it all off, my father had just been promoted, so naturally, a grand party was in order.

He had made the announcement a day before, his voice carrying that familiar authority.

“Twenty-five, maybe thirty guests will be here tomorrow. The house must be spotless, and the food — perfect.”

And that was it. His word became the household commandment. My mother began her preparations immediately, her hands moving faster than thought, dusting shelves, arranging crockery, kneading dough. By night, the kitchen smelled of ghee and sugar, the air thick with the sweetness of laddoos, jalebis, and exhaustion.

I helped her a little and couldn’t help but snap, “Why do you have to do everything yourself? We can easily buy sweets from the market!”

She smiled, not pausing her stirring.

“Your father doesn’t like store sweets. And besides, food tastes different when made with your own hands.”

I sighed. “You’ll spend all night cooking and wake up with dark circles. Tomorrow’s your anniversary — shouldn’t you look nice?”

She laughed quietly. “At my age, looking nice isn’t the goal anymore. I just want your father’s guests to enjoy themselves.”

That was that. We all went to sleep around ten, but when I woke up in the middle of the night for water, I still heard the sound of utensils clinking in the kitchen. She hadn’t even eaten dinner.

At dawn, she was already sweeping floors. The house gleamed as though it were Diwali. By afternoon, she had been on her feet for nearly twelve hours — cooking, cleaning, serving tea to the caterers, decorating the living room. Yet she hadn’t touched a single morsel.

Around five in the evening, as the last garland was hung, I noticed her hands trembling. “Maa, please eat something,” I said.

“Later,” she murmured, brushing me off. “Guests will be here any minute.”

And then the cars started arriving.

Laughter filled the house, the sound of heels on marble, perfume, polite chatter. My father stood by the entrance, glowing in his suit and freshly dyed hair, greeting everyone as if it were his coronation night.

Every now and then, he peeked into the kitchen. “Is the food ready?”

My mother nodded each time, smiling faintly, hiding the dizziness creeping over her.

By eight, everything was perfect, three kinds of curry, raita, papad, sweets, ice cream .

 Only the pooris were left to be fried. The guests were praising the aroma when suddenly there was a dull thud behind the kitchen door.

She had collapsed.

I rushed in, heart pounding, and held her head in my lap. Her face was pale as dough.

“Enough, Maa,” I begged. “You’re going to eat right now.”

She shook her head weakly. “No... how can I eat before the guests?”

“Maa, please—”

“If you must feed me,” she whispered, “bring some of the leftover dal and rotis from morning. That will do.”

So I did. She ate in silence, just a few dry bites of cold food, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the roti to her mouth.

But fate was cruelly alert that night. My grandmother happened to pass by the kitchen and saw her eating.

Moments later, my father stormed in, his face dark with anger.

“You couldn’t wait for half an hour? Is this what you do when guests are here? You eat before them?”

The laughter from the hall turned into a heavy silence. My relatives began whispering, then judging out loud.

“She’s lost her manners.”

“No patience at all.”

“What will the guests think?”

I tried to speak, to defend her but she only lowered her head, her eyes glistening not with tears but with shame she didn’t deserve.

And so, my mother who had spent two sleepless days cooking, cleaning, and caring stood there, apologizing. Apologizing for something that shouldn’t have needed forgiveness.

For the big mistake of eating after being hungry all day.

By Anshul Purvia