I am a delivery boy. I mostly work the evening shift.

I am a delivery boy. I mostly work the evening shift. That day, around 9 PM at night, I picked up the last order. When I took the packet from the restaurant, I noticed—it was a small order, just plain khichdi, curd, and two bananas. The address was in the old part of the city. A rundown building. Third floor up. I pressed the doorbell. An elderly woman opened the door. White hair, trembling hands, thick glasses on her eyes. Her face showed fatigue, but her voice had a sweetness— "Son, put it inside, please… my hands shake." I set the food on the table and turned to leave when she asked— "Will you sit for two minutes? Eating alone doesn't feel good." I checked my watch. My shift was over. I was a bit tired. But for some reason, I sat down. The room was silent. An old clock ticked on the wall. In one corner, a small picture of God. And on the opposite wall, dozens of photos. She opened the plate. Started eating the khichdi slowly. After every two bites, she'd look at me and smile. Then she said— "You know, son, I don't order food from outside every day. Today, I just felt like it… to hear a human voice." I stayed quiet. She pointed to a picture on the wall. "This is my husband. He worked in the railways. He passed away five years ago." Then another picture— "This is my son. Lives in Canada. He's doing very well… sends money every month." Then she fell silent for a bit. She smiled, but this time her eyes welled up— "It's just… he doesn't have time to send." Suddenly, the clock's ticking in the room sounded very loud. She took another bite. "This is my daughter. In Bengaluru. She's happy in her own world. She should be. If children don't fly, what was the point of raising them?" As she spoke, her voice cracked. But there was no complaint on her face. Just emptiness. She asked me— "Do you have a mother?" I said— "Yes." "Do you call her every day?" I went quiet. The truth was, I too went days without calling home. Fatigue, work, the rush… Every time, I'd put it off thinking I'd do it tomorrow. She read my silence. She said softly— "Parents don't count money, son… They count voices." Something inside me quietly broke. The meal ended. She drank some water. Then she took 500 rupees from her purse and held it out to me. "This isn't a tip. This is the price for that half hour, when you didn't let me eat alone." I refused immediately— "No, Amma, I can't take this." She smiled— "Take it. You didn't deliver food today… You delivered company." I took the money. But I didn't put it in my pocket. I held it in my hand. As I was leaving, she said— "And yes— Go home today and call your mother for sure." That night, I didn't start my bike at the bottom of the building. I called my mother first. From the other end came her voice— "Calling suddenly today? Everything's okay, right?" Just hearing that choked me up. I said— "Yes, Mom… I just wanted to hear your voice." There was silence for a few seconds on the other end. Then Mom said— "Have you eaten?" And I stood by the roadside and broke down crying. After that night, I started calling Mom every day. And not just Mom— Every delivery stopped being just an order for me. Some homes need medicine. Some homes need relief from loneliness. Some homes need waiting to end. Some homes just need a voice. Now, when the door opens, I don't rush. I look at the face. I listen to the voice. Sometimes I ask— "And everything else okay?" Most people just say "Yes." Some smile. And some faces tell me they haven't spoken to anyone all day. Two months later, an order came from the same address. I rushed over. Someone else opened the door. It was the neighbor aunty. She said softly— "Amma passed away last week." I stood at the door for a few seconds. My hands were empty, but something heavy had fallen inside me. She brought out a small envelope from inside. "She left this for you." My hands shaking, I opened it. Inside were 500 rupees. And a small note. It said— "Son, If you're reading this, I've gone. Thank you for eating with me that night. You didn't give me food—you gave me respect. And yes—keep calling your mother. Amma" Even today, those 500 rupees are in the inner pocket of my bag. I haven't spent them. Because that night, I understood for the first time— Behind every door isn't just a customer. Sometimes it's a mother. Sometimes it's a wait. Sometimes it's a last conversation. We're all living with our own hungers— Some need bread, Some need medicine, And some just need two minutes of company. Humans don't always need a delivery of money— Sometimes, they just need a delivery of presence. The story ends. PS The story ended but the heaviness in my heart lingered for a long time Loneliness and old age are terrible indeed when they occur together. If lack of resources also joins these two it is the ultimate tragedy For those whose parents are still around , it is a gentle reminder please make time to call them