Whiskey Toast

I, Dr. Shakira Nandini, I was never one for grand gestures. My tribute to my mother was never about elaborate ceremonies but about stolen moments—like sipping whiskey in an anonymous restaurant, lost in thought. What seemed like a simple act was, in reality, a reflection of my entire life—a journey through memories, farewells, and the relentless cycle of time.

Just a while ago, I had dropped my daughter, Natasha, off at her hostel. As I sat back in the driver’s seat, a strange melancholy crept in. Maybe it was the quiet—the silence that settles into a mother’s heart when her child is out of sight. Driving back home, I was suddenly transported into the past, into the embrace of my mother’s memories.

She always told me, "Life never stops for anyone, but a mother’s love will always stay with you." And today, as I left Natasha behind, I felt the weight of those words more than ever. My mother had been a mother too—she had watched me walk away, just as I had watched my daughter today. Did she feel this same ache? Would Natasha one day feel it too?

On my way back, I spotted a restaurant and instinctively pulled over. I walked in, found a quiet corner, and ordered a glass of whiskey. The drink had always been my companion—sometimes in celebration, sometimes in solitude. I took a sip, closed my eyes, and in that moment, I felt her presence beside me, smiling, listening.

"How are you, my love? Are you tired of life?"

No, Ma, I’m not tired. Just a little heavy-hearted. Like today. Like now. Dropping Natasha at the hostel left an emptiness in me, a silence I couldn’t shake. I missed you. I missed the way your eyes understood my pain without a word.

As I swallowed another sip, I tried to drown my emotions, but the memories… they remained untouched.

The waiter returned with a menu, but I had no appetite. He understood. Perhaps he had seen many like me—people who came here not for the food, but for their thoughts. I raised my glass in a silent toast.

"Ma, wherever you are, I feel you."

That night, sleep came, but so did my mother—in dreams, in whispers, in the same gentle smile. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me the way she always did, as if to remind me, "I never left."

The next morning, I woke up feeling lighter. Life wasn’t going to stop. I had to move forward—for Natasha, for my mother’s memory, for the invisible thread of existence that connects us all.

At my office, my staff awaited. I took a deep breath, smiled at them, and thought to myself:

"Life is a cycle that goes on… and on… and on."