At 6:12 every morning, before anyone woke up, Nisha went to the balcony.

Not every morning.

Only on the mornings when she managed to make tea before her son shouted from the bedroom.

She stood beside the railing with the cup in both hands.

Five minutes.

That was the rule.

No phone. No washing machine. No checking school messages.

Just tea.

From the balcony she could see the woman in the building opposite watering her tulsi plant.

She could hear a milk packet hitting a doorstep.

Somewhere below, a scooter refused to start.

It was not peaceful.

It was simply hers.

One morning, her son appeared behind her.

“Amma.”

She closed her eyes.

“What?”

“Where’s my blue bottle?”

“On the table.”

“No, the other one.”

“In the kitchen.”

He left.

She looked at her tea.

Three minutes left.

Her husband came next.

“Have you seen my keys?”

“Near the shoe rack.”

He found them and left.

Then the school bus horn sounded.

She finished the tea in two gulps.

For weeks, this was how it went.

Then one Sunday, her son asked,

“Why do you go outside every morning?”

“I like it.”

“Why?”

She thought about it.

“Because nobody asks me where their things are.”

He laughed.

She did too.

The next morning, when she came to the balcony, there was a small paper taped to the door.

Her son had written:

“Amma’s five minutes. Don’t disturb.”

Underneath, in smaller handwriting:

“Except if breakfast is ready.”

She laughed so loudly that the neighbour across the building looked up.

She kept the paper.

About the Author

I’m the writer behind The Quiet Things, where I write about love, family, memory, healing, regret and the quiet moments people rarely put into words.

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