Blast

🔥 Blast – A Short Story
Savita had woken up earlier than usual that morning. The house felt unusually light, as if it had exhaled after days of anticipation. Her son Hitesh and his wife Harsha had left for their short trip to Pahelgav just an hour ago.

But Savita’s heart carried a secret — one she had guarded like a warm ember in her palms.
Harsha was expecting.

Her bahu had told her only last evening, her eyes shy, her smile trembling with happiness.
“Ma, we will tell Hitesh together… after the trip.”

Savita had nodded. Tears had formed, soft and proud.
She had waited for this moment for years; the joy had settled inside her like rising sunlight.

That morning, she made two cups of tea anyway — a habit from when Hitesh lived with them before marriage. She placed them both on the table, imagining the moment she would share the news with him, imagining his grin lighting up the room.

The calendar on the wall still showed the previous month. She had meant to change it, but life had been moving so fast.

Then the phone rang.
A neighbour’s trembling voice.
A news channel crackling with horror.
A headline that split her world open —

“PAHELGAV TOURIST MARKET ROCKED BY BLAST — CASUALTIES FEARED.”

Savita’s fingers went numb.
Her breath stopped before the tears could start.
Her heart, once full with two lives, now felt like a hollow corridor echoing a mother’s unanswered prayers.

Hours passed in a blur of police reports, hospital visits, and cold waiting-room benches.
By evening, her world had fallen silent.

Hitesh and Harsha were gone.

From the next morning onward, Savita lived in routines — not life.

She woke at 6.
Boiled water.
Made two cups of tea she never drank.
Touched the frozen calendar but couldn’t flip it.
Hummed a lullaby Harsha once said she wanted her future child to hear.

Days became weeks.
Weeks became a numb season.

Until one afternoon, when the postman called out her name.

“Savita-ben? A letter for you. Looks old… got misplaced in sorting.”

The envelope was pale, edges softened by time, and the handwriting unmistakably Harsha’s.

Her fingers shook as she opened it.


“Ma,
When you read this, we’ll be on our trip. I wanted to write instead of speaking — I felt shy but happy.
Ma… I’m carrying your grandchild.
Please take care until we return.
I want our baby to grow in a home filled with your strength, your laughter, your lullaby.
Love,
Harsha.”



Savita pressed the paper to her chest. The tears came — not sharp like before, but warm, flowing after being held captive too long.

For the first time in months, she breathed deeply.

Harsha’s words did something no consolation could do —
they broke the chain of her endless, lifeless days.

Because love survives where bodies cannot.
Because a mother’s heart, even shattered, keeps beating for those she once held.
Because some letters arrive not late… but exactly when a life needs to move again.

Savita folded the letter gently, changed the calendar to the new month, and made one cup of tea for herself.

Life had not returned —
but she had.