In 1986, my mother told me to go to my eldest uncle’s house to borrow some rice. Unexpectedly, he generously gave me 10 kilograms. But when my mother poured the rice out, she suddenly covered her face and sobbed uncontrollably. The reason behind it shocked me and I will never forget it…
In 1986, I was twelve years old. It was a time when famine was spreading throughout the villages of Uttar Pradesh. Our family meals usually consisted of a little rice mixed with sweet potatoes or cassava, topped with a thin spinach soup. My father had died many years earlier in a work accident, leaving my mother to raise my three sisters and me alone.

That day, it was late winter, and a cold wind blew from the Himalayas. I saw my mother struggling with the empty rice jar. She picked up the remaining grains, then sighed:

“Go to Uncle Ramesh’s house and borrow some rice. I’ll find a way to pay you back tomorrow.”

I timidly picked up my old cloth bag and ran to Uncle Ramesh’s house, my father’s eldest brother. As I uttered my request, my cheeks flushed. But the old woman didn’t scold me; she just looked at me for a long time. Her eyes held an indescribable expression: a mixture of sorrow and heaviness.

A moment later, she went back inside and brought out a heavy sack of rice, probably ten kilograms. She placed it in my hand, her voice trembling slightly:

“Take this home for your mother, don’t be shy.”

I was overjoyed, stammering my thanks before struggling to carry the sack of rice home. On the way, the biting cold seemed to fade, as I imagined my family enjoying fragrant white rice.

As soon as I stepped into the yard, I excitedly called out:

“Amma, the old woman gave us so much!”

My mother, Lakshmi, came to help, setting the sack down and opening it. Suddenly, her hand froze. In the middle of the white rice was a small, old wooden box, along with a small, tightly tied cloth bag. My mother froze, then tremblingly picked it up.

Opening the box, my mother choked back tears when she saw the old Kantha scarf embroidered with the letters “A & L” and the familiar small dagger. These were mementos my father, Arjun, had taken with him before leaving home for work.

Then she opened the cloth bag. Inside, silver rupees gleamed under the oil lamp. I was stunned, and my mother trembled, her eyes reddening. She quickly unfolded the carefully folded, yellowed letter.

My mother’s voice faltered as she read:

“My dear Lakshmi, if you read these words, I may no longer be with you and the children. I’m entrusting my brother Ramesh with some rice, mementos, and my savings. If one day the family truly falls into hardship, he will give them back. Use this money to get through these cold and hungry days. I can’t come home, but I hope this last bit of warmth will help you and the children stand strong. I believe you are strong enough. From afar, I am still watching over you…”

My mother collapsed, clutching the letter to her chest, tears streaming down her face. I stood silently, my heart heavy. Never before had I seen my mother so heartbroken and emotional.

That night, she didn’t cook dinner immediately. She lit an incense stick on my father’s altar, placed the letter, the Kantha scarf, and the money beside his photograph, and whispered:

Arjun, you finally received the warmth I sent back. He’s still here, still worried about us…

The sandalwood incense smoke rose in thick plumes, and my mother’s face brightened through her tears.

In the days that followed, with the money in her purse, she bought more wheat, sweet potatoes, some cooking oil, and spices. The three of us escaped the threat of hunger. Each meal was no longer a worry, but a source of gratitude. My mother always said:

“Eat, my child. This isn’t just rice, it’s the love your father sent back.”

I held the bowl of fragrant white rice, feeling a strange sweetness, yet also a salty taste in my eyes.

Many years later, as an adult, I still vividly remember that winter afternoon in our village in Uttar Pradesh. The afternoon when, from within the sack of rice, my mother found a treasure: not only the money to save us from starvation, but also a letter overflowing with my father’s love.

I understand that my father’s greatest legacy wasn’t money, but his care, his love, and the spirit of Dharmic that helped our family weather the storms.

And even now, whenever I see white rice, I remember my mother sobbing while holding that letter – a memory that will never fade, a memory that has nourished me throughout my life.