One Phone Call Away

Maya sits at the top of the summit surrounded by varying tones and shades of nature, engulfed by the greens. She is fidgeting with her phone trying to capture the view in her almond shaped eyes. Her phone isn’t working, making her feel restless. Ironically, she came here to hunt down the calm but longs to hear that one voice miles apart. The voice miles away.

‘How many times have I told you not to touch my bag!’ Maya yells at Daima. Her caretaker—more than that, her world—folded laundry with precision, the clothes arranged by color, just as Maya liked. The two had an unspoken understanding, one built on routine and the intimacy of years. She wasn’t family by blood, but her presence had stitched itself into the fabric of Maya’s life.

 "Da-i-ma," Maya had babbled as a child. Her parents, always chasing stories around the world, left her first steps, first words, unseen. It was Daima, in her muted color sarees loosely hanging around her waist. Her origins were a mystery, even to Maya. She barely spoke English, and her Marathi and broken Hindi told stories of a village and a childhood far away. Her forehead and wrists were inked with Gond tattoos, remnants of a past that lived in whispered lullabies and old, forgotten rituals.

देव जरी मज कधी भेटला, माग हवे ते माग म्हणाला, म्हणेन प्रभू रे माझे सारे, जीवन देई मम बाळाला. 

If God were to meet me someday, He would ask what I want, and I would say: O Lord, give all my life’s blessings to my child

That’s what Daima would always hum as she worked, the song of her life pouring into Maya’s world. For Maya, those words became a quiet comfort—a lullaby of unconditional love.

When Maya’s parents relocated to Germany, she agreed on one condition: Daima had to come. For her parents, it was easy—Daima had always been a part of their home, and a few extra euros didn’t dent their pockets. After all, replacing her old, rugged toys with a person who would care for and feed her seemed like a reasonable bet.

Growing up in Deutschland, Maya became a picky eater unable to savor the Knödel boiled potato balls, Döner kebabs or gulping down the Pho. She longed for the flavors of home—Daima’s spices that no Indian restaurant in Berlin could fully recreate. Once Maya was feeling super homesick so Dai wandered off without telling anyone, only to be found later by the Polizei at Dong Xuan Asian market with a packet of fresh parathas in hand.

Maya’s need for structure grew as she got older. Even dinner with her parents had to be scheduled on her calendar. But there was one person she always had time for, no matter what—Daima.

As her wanderlust blossomed, Maya traveled more, always searching for something in the far corners of the world. At sixteen, she set off on solo adventures. Daima, though physically rooted in Berlin, remained her tether to home. Through video calls, Maya would show her the world – hiking amidst the mountains of Peru, lounging in the Maldives, and exploring the enchanting hills of Bali. But Daima never commented much, only smiled and nodded, content to see Maya happy

As the years passed, video calls became voice notes. The conversations grew shorter, but Maya’s need to stay connected never waned. She clung to those moments with Daima like a lifeline, as if they alone could keep her grounded.

The last time Maya had seen Daima, the memory was crystal clear. Daima’s eyes, wrinkled and sparkling, looked as though they had never lost their light—not even after Baba, her husband, passed away in her village in India. Maya had hugged her, feeling Daima’s frail frame, but the energy between them was timeless.

“Daaaaaiiii,” Maya had called, just like when she was little. Daima kissed her cheeks, pulling her back into a childhood she hadn’t realized she missed so much. Maya had promised to stay, to spend more time with her. She knew Daima was getting older, weaker, and that time wasn’t on their side. 

One afternoon, in the kitchen, Daima banged pots and pans, refusing any help.

"Daaaai, rehne do abhi. Kitna kaam karoge? Main tumse milne aayi hoon, ya diwaaron se?" How much work will you do? Have I come to meet you, or the walls? she teased, her voice soft with affection.

Daima, stubborn as ever, ignored her, pouring the tadka into the dal with the same care she always had. The cumin seeds sizzled, chili's crackled, and the garlic bloomed into an aroma that pulled Maya back to her toy kitchen. Dai chasing her around with a spoonful of khichdi. 

Later that day, Maya had tiptoed to the balcony, where Daima sat, talking softly to a framed photograph of Baba. Maya lingered in the doorway, overhearing snippets of Daima’s one-sided conversation. Suddenly her leg touched the pot next to her.

"Kab tak bhaagegi, Maya?" How long will you keep running?

"Come here, bacchi," Daima had said, patting the ground next to her. It was as if Daima had always known she was there. Maya sat down, hugging her legs to her chest.

“Bhagavad Gita mein likha hai," Daima’s voice was steady but firm. "Parivartan he prakriti ka niyam hai." Change is the only law of nature.

Maya hadn’t known then, but those words would follow her for years. Now, sitting on the summit, Maya feels the weight of those words again, echoing in the silence around her. Maya has been escaping with her solo adventures for decades now mimicking the same pattern of her parents she was once running away from.

Her phone finally catches a signal—a single bar. Without hesitation, she dials Daima’s number.

Tring, tring. The phone rings in the quiet mountain air, a hollow sound against the vastness. No answer. The call goes to voicemail.

Maya hesitates for a moment, her throat tight, before she starts speaking.

“Dai, it’s me. I’m in the Balkans right now... you should see it, it’s so beautiful here. The cows, the mountains—they remind me of the Himalayas you told me about. They eat something called Borek here. It almost tastes like your Parathas."

Her voice trembles. She swallows hard, staring out at the view that feels suddenly far away.

“You know, Dai, I’ve gotten better. I even met Mamma and Papa without a calendar invite. They… they seem fine."

She pauses, listening to the silence on the other end, as if waiting for Daima to respond. But there’s nothing—just the static void.

The truth seeps in, heavy and inevitable. It’s been too long. She had been chasing an echo, holding onto the past like a lifeline. Her memories of Daima flicker in her mind—real, yet distant, as if they’re slowly fading away.

“I miss you, Daima,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I’ll keep calling you. I’ll keep telling you about everything... wherever you are. I hope you’re proud of me.”

She hangs up and sits there, staring at the landscape, her phone screen glowing faintly with Daima’s photo on the lock screen. She starts singing the lullaby …

देव जरी मज कधी भेटला…