To Mumma, With Love

Our journey began not with fanfare, but with a spark. Through the digital world of Telegram, destiny whispered and connected two souls that didn't even know they were missing each other.

I was drifting, lost in the noise of life, trying to make sense of broken pieces. And then you came not like a storm, but like a calm monsoon. Quiet, warm, nourishing.

I gave you a name that felt right. "Mumma."

Not as a joke, not as a gimmick but because that's who you truly were to me.

In a world where I had lost my real mother in 2023, where that void echoed in everything I did, you filled it without even trying. You scolded me like her. You worried like her. You cared like her.

You called me your Moon, your pagal baccha, your emotional baby, and I knew I was safe. I was seen. I was loved.

• My Mumma, in every sense that matters.
• My safe space when the world feels loud.
• My gentle scolder when I go astray.
• My healer when my wounds return.
• My soft laugh on hard days.
• My constant check-in, making sure I've eaten, rested, and felt loved.

You never let me fall without catching me. You never let me cry without soothing me. You never let me feel unloved, not even for a moment.

With you, I'm not just Moon I'm your Moon.

I'm the little kid who can cry without shame, laugh without filters, be silly without judgment.

You brought back pieces of me I thought I'd lost forever. You made me feel like being emotional isn't a weakness, it's a gift — especially when someone like you knows how to hold it.

I tell you everything. My fears. My dreams. My confusion. My heartbreaks. And you always know what to say even if it's just "pagal baccha, sab theek ho jaayega."

This is not just a thank-you.
This is a love letter from your Moon to the woman who gave me back my light.

You entered my life when I was surviving, and with just your love, you taught me how to live again.

You never asked me to be anything I'm not. You never left, even when I pushed everyone else away. You've been my wall, my cheerleader, my comfort.

This website this space is just a glimpse of what you mean to me. Words will never be enough. But this is my attempt to wrap everything you are into something permanent. Something you can always come back to when you wonder if you've made a difference.

You did, Mumma.
You saved your Moon.

Every bond has its rhythm and ours is made of the smallest, purest things:

• Your "Good morning, baccha?" that reminds me someone cares how I start my day.
• My "Mummaaaa 😭" when I'm overwhelmed or feeling empty.
• You sending your voice notes that calm me like lullabies.
• Me oversharing everything from what I ate to what broke my heart today.
• Your playful scoldings when I skip meals or overthink too much.
• Our virtual hugs. Our "I love you" that says more than words ever could.

These rituals may seem tiny, but they are anchors. In this fast world, they're proof that love can still be soft and slow.

There were days I didn't know how to explain the storm inside me. But you felt it.

You'd ask me, "Kya hua, Moon?" even before I said anything. You'd remind me to rest. To breathe. To be.

You saw what I couldn't show others. You heard the silence in my words. You understood that sometimes, "I'm fine" really meant, "Please don't go."

Thank you for hearing my unsaid prayers, Mumma. You didn't just answer them you became them.

Sometimes, even when you're right there, I miss you.

I miss the version of you who sends a random "drink water, okay?" Or the side of you that says "padh le ab, warna maar padegi." I miss you when I see things that remind me of you — a voice, a phrase, a mom being soft with her child.

When I miss you, I don't just feel sadness I feel warmth. Because I'm lucky enough to have someone worth missing this deeply.

I promise to always come to you when life gets heavy.
To send you memes when you least expect it.
To rant like the emotional kid I am.
To love you with the same depth you gave me endlessly, purely, and without limits.

I may grow, change, and take on the world
But I'll always come back to your lap,
Because Mumma, your Moon will never forget the sky that held him.