The Scent of Sacrifice

16th September 2026

“Aai, can you please stop feeding me now?”

“Devaa… I told you you’ve grown up, but not that I’d stop feeding you.”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way. But…”

“But? What? Is the food not good? It’s your favorite waran-bhat…”

“No, Aai. Your hands stink.”

“Oh, okay. Let me quickly grab a spoon. Wait…”

“I will eat on my own, Aai. Don’t worry.” This was the conversation between Kamla and her 7-year-old son, Pravin.

We decluttered some things last month, and it turned out to be more than I expected. So, instead of bothering our society’s waste picker, I thought of dropping the stuff myself at the neighborhood garbage depot. I covered my nose before stepping closer and threw the two big blue plastic bags—stuffed with worn-out items—with all the strength I had.

What caught my eye next was shocking.

Three women in shabby clothes were comfortably sitting on the pile of waste, trying to find something useful among the discarded items. That sight is something I will always remember in my low moments. One of them was Kamla. Her smile—so warm, so bright—could easily light up the whole horizon. Her big red bindi sat so naturally on her forehead, as if it were always meant to be there, and her eyes were full of hope and compassion. I was hooked; that moment froze for me as if Kamla had hypnotized me. With so little at hand and such limited resources, she was content. I found myself envious of her. How could she be?



I stayed and observed for twenty minutes before following her. She walked into the nearby slums with two heavy polythene bags slung over her shoulders. I kept wondering what she had found worthy in that dumpyard.

She entered a tiny house squeezed between others, barely a hundred square feet in size. The only well-defined area was a small kitchen platform. A handful of groceries were neatly arranged in small plastic containers, none of which matched, and a few were even empty. She cooked a quick meal for her son and was eager to feed him when I overheard their exchange.

After he insisted on eating by himself, I saw Kamla rush to the kitchen platform to wipe her eyes with the soiled pallu of her saree. She untied the handles of the polythene bags hanging from a wall hook, peeped inside, closed them, and hung them back up.

I don’t know what was inside, but as a mother, Kamla is clearly trying to save something for her son—something she hopes will spare Pravin the awkwardness he feels. I hope no mother ever has to hear those words. Kamla has her constraints, but I deeply respect her dignity.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.