I just want to know if you called for me that night when you had what the doctor called a manic episode, or if it was only your friend’s call that brought us there. I have been replaying our brief calls from the days before the incident, desperate to find the signs I missed. As a child, you often lied, boasted, and even put on shows that weren’t so convincing. Now, you’ve fooled me completely. Isn’t this making you sick, keeping everything inside?

I want you to know about a terrible night when I was sixteen. Your good-for-nothing uncle said I’d soon be another family’s burden and should spend more time in the kitchen as he snatched away my books. I spent that night on the terrace, cursing. Like you, I hated everyone and trusted no one. The next day, I wrote a huge letter to your Nanu, who was stationed at the time. It wasn’t a careless letter filled with just angst. I never sent it, and a month later, he passed away. Before I could process my grief, my marriage was arranged.

I just want to know what frustrates you about your job. Isn't working from home a relief? Think about your cousin stuck in Delhi's traffic for hours. Could it be those company calls where your voice is often heavy and tired? You said, “The chaat stall vendor makes more money”. Is that why you're considering returning to the city that made you sick, all for a few more thousand rupees?

I want you to know that I have been managing all our savings—your father hands over his salary every month and just keeps some pocket money for himself. I’m not asking you to do the same, but you can trust me. Remember the plot sale that paid for your college? I arranged that—no loans involved. Maybe you could let me help you like that? I hope you know that what you are earning now is enough; it's all about how you manage it.

I just want to know why I found that filthy grass packet in your clothes again. The first time, during your college break, you claimed it was your friend's. I knew then, as I know now, that it’s yours. Please don’t take me for a fool. Are the medicines not working? But it’s not just because of the urge, is it?

I want you to know why I didn’t answer when you asked, 'What do you want, Ma?' as you found me staring while I sat on the edge of your hospital bed, and again when I was in your room the other night. I felt I couldn’t. I felt I shouldn’t dare say anything. It was as if you had put me on a test, and I was already failing.

I just want to know more about the place you visited before all this happened. You mentioned a sky so clear and filled with stars—a sight you were in awe of. Is it silly for me to hope you’ll take me there someday? Here in Delhi, sometimes we can’t even see the moon through the smog.

I want you to know I’ve visited the northern side too. When your Nanu was stationed in Kashmir, he took us there during a school break. I made little mountain slopes with chinar leaves. They felt so cushiony to jump on, one of those simple pleasures, like the smell of wet mud. Remember how you used to run your fingers through the wet sand and even try to eat it until I sprinkled chilies on it to stop you? Did I ever tell you about my habit of eating chips off the lids of mud-made water pots?

I just want to know what you meant when you said, “You see the truth, and you’ll change the world,” in the hospital. You also said, “They are watching me, Ma.” What hurt me most wasn’t just not understanding what you meant, but not knowing what you felt then. It was like one of those strange alien stories you wrote as a child. But one thing was clear: the fears hovering around you like bad spirits. You wouldn’t let the doctor see your hand with the shard of glass in it, not even me. You were scared of everything, including me.

I want you to know I see the fight you’ve been putting up. Once, I slipped and broke my leg badly near Jhodh, the grey lake where I took our buffalo to bathe. I stopped struggling after a while; I let myself breathe and even relax because I was aware—or rather conscious—that they would come for the buffalo, if not for me. I need you to know that I will always come for you. Please, keep fighting.

I just want to know if you feel the need to lie more now that you're home. Before, you'd come home demanding special dishes, but now you don’t even mind the karela sabzi you used to hate. You’d lie on the sofa like a lazy log all day with the mess around you, but now you sit on the side chair with your back hunched. After quitting the job, are you feeling any better? You yelled at your father when he asked about your career, saying you're a failure and unsuited for any job. When I asked you to explain, you dismissed me and left. Do you think I won’t understand because I never finished school?

I want you to know how good it felt to see you writing in your notebook again after all these years. But I worry too. I fear that one day you'll write me a letter. A letter that starts with, 'We’ve always misunderstood each other…' I fear that no matter what I do for you, you’ll never think highly of me. I don’t want to be an uneducated fool of a mother who failed her son.