My mother loves routine. Every day, food was ready on time — rice with rasam, one vegetable, and filter coffee after 10 a.m. And no talking during her serials on TV. I grew up with that. It felt safe. But it also felt boring sometimes. “Why do we eat the same food every day?” I used to ask. Amma would just smile and say, “Because it’s good for you.” She never explained much. But she always understood me. I have something called anhedonia. It means I don’t feel excited about things. Not food. Not birthdays. Not even festivals. Everything feels quiet, like the world has no color. But Amma knew. She never made a big deal about it. Now I live in Bangalore. I work as a journalist. I’m always busy — running around with a mic, chasing stories. I eat fast. Most nights, I order the same food from an app — and still complain. Funny, right? I wanted something new, but I live in my own routine now. Some months ago, I went to Gaza to report on the war. It was hard to see. So many buildings were destroyed. People had lost their homes. Many families were living in tents near the beach — because there was nowhere else to go. Children played in the sand near broken walls. Mothers cooked over small fires. The sea looked calm, but everything else felt heavy. One evening, I walked away from my team to be alone for a bit. The sun was setting over the sea. The sky was orange, and the waves made a soft, steady sound. That’s when I saw her. An old woman, sitting on a rock near her tent. Her home was gone. Her clothes were dusty. But her face was calm. She looked at me and smiled. Then she held something out. “You look tired and hungry,” she said. “Eat.” It was a banana. I didn’t expect it. But something inside me cracked. I took it, sat down next to her — and suddenly, I started crying. Not soft tears. Real, heavy crying. I couldn’t stop. She didn’t say a word. She just touched my back gently — like Amma would. And that’s when I remembered something. I was nine. My brother was very sick and in the hospital. One day, Amma packed just a banana in my lunchbox. I didn’t understand why. I felt scared and angry. I opened the box, saw only the banana — and threw it away. That night, I didn’t see my brother again. And I never cried. From that moment onwards, nothing in life excited me — let alone being emotional. It was like a part of me shut down. Everything felt dull. But now, sitting beside this woman in Gaza, holding that same fruit… I finally cried. We didn’t film that moment. There was no camera. No story to report. But for me, it was the most important thing that happened on the whole trip. When I came back to Chennai, I went straight home. Amma made dinner like always — rasam, rice, and a banana on the side. This time, I didn’t push it away. I picked it up and took a bite. Amma looked surprised. “You ate the banana?” I smiled. “Yeah.” She didn’t say anything more. Just gave me that soft Amma smile — the one that means I understand. My name is Dhanya. It means grateful. And now… I really am. Even for the small things I once threw away. Hereby, Gowtham