For fifteen years, the tiffin box came home with something left in it.

Not much.

Two beans. Half a chapati. A piece of carrot he had decided was personally offensive.

His mother knew without opening it.

She could tell from the weight.

“You didn’t eat the vegetable.”

“I did.”

“Then why is it still here?”

“I was saving it.”

“For what?”

“Emergency.”

She had never understood what emergency required cold beans at four in the afternoon.

Still, she packed them the next morning.

Years passed.

School became college. College became a job in another city.

He came home on a Friday after almost eight months away.

On Saturday morning, she made lemon rice, potato fry and curd rice.

She found the old steel tiffin box in the back of the cupboard.

“You still have this?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It has survived more lunches than I have.”

She packed too much.

He took it with him when he went out.

That evening, the box came back.

She opened it while standing at the kitchen sink.

Empty.

Not one grain of rice.

She stared at it for a second.

Then he walked in.

“Amma?”

“Hmm?”

“Tomorrow can you make that potato fry again?”

She looked at the empty box.

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“I missed it.”

She closed the lid.

“Fine.”

The next morning, she packed enough for two.

Read this when an ordinary routine suddenly tells you someone has grown.