“The Portal Room”
A Short Story by a Student In Germany Who Just Wanted to Hug His Maa Without Spending 400 Euros, and 12 Hours
Chapter One: The Portal Room
It had been raining all day in Gießen.
Not the kind of rain that brings kids to the balcony or makes your mother yell from the kitchen, “andar aa jao, bimaar ho jaoge!” (“Come inside, you’ll fall sick!”).
This rain was foreign. Cold. Grey. Silent. The kind that made homesickness louder, made your heart feel like a waterlogged suitcase.
Arpit sat at his desk, staring at the open laptop. The cursor blinked at him, like a ticking clock, but the words wouldn’t come. His eyes wandered to the window. He imagined what his parents might be doing in Delhi. Maybe Maa was making chai. Maybe Papa was watching the news. Maybe the house didn’t even feel complete without him anymore.
His phone pinged. A message from his sister in Düsseldorf.
Didi: “You okay? Missed your call. Also, Maa said, ‘Bas ek baar uski shakal dekh loon toh theek ho jaaye.’”
(“Just seeing his face once will make me feel better.”)
He paused. Read it again.
That one line held the full weight of Indian motherhood.
She won't say she misses you outright. She’ll cook your favourite dish. She’ll talk about the weather. She’ll ask if your room is warm enough. But that one sentence—that’s love. That’s longing.
Arpit swallowed. He looked around. Books stacked high. Assignments to finish. A half-eaten apple on the desk. He was surrounded by structure but empty of warmth.
Then, something shifted. Literally.
The wall behind his desk flickered.
Where his old Europe map used to be, there was now a shimmering, silver-like panel. He had first noticed it a few days ago, faint like an afterimage. But today, it glowed. Calmly. As if it had been waiting for him.
Words appeared:
“Portal Room Active. Destination: Delhi. Family Network Detected. Do you wish to proceed?”
His heart skipped.
He stared at it. His breath caught.
He texted his sister:
“Don’t tell Maa–Papa. Not a word. I’m coming.”
She replied instantly:
“WHAT?? Coming how? Are you okay?? Is this a joke??”
He smiled. Just the thought of what was about to happen gave him goosebumps. The kind you get before doing something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.
He took a slow breath. Walked toward the panel. Reached out.
His fingers touched the surface. Cold at first. Then… it disappeared.
He stepped forward.
And suddenly—
Heat. Sound. Life. Delhi.
The air smelled of samosas, incense, petrol, and dust. That beautiful mix you only notice after being away. He was standing outside the house. His house. The yellow gate. The little rust stain in the corner. The potted tulsi plant on the steps. The old “Welcome” doormat with the "W" faded.
His throat tightened.
He rang the bell.
From inside, he heard her voice.
Ma: “Kaun hai? Arpit ne toh bola tha agle mahine aayega.”
(“Who is it? Arpit said he would come next month.”)
He smiled through his tears.
The door opened.
Maa stood there. For one second, she didn’t move. Her hands were still covered in aata (dough). A bit of flour was on her cheek.
Then, softly, she whispered—
“Arpit?”
He nodded, tears now slipping down freely.
She gasped and pressed her palm to his face, as if to confirm it wasn’t a dream.
Then, in an instant, she pulled him into her arms.
“Mera bachcha… bina bataye aa gaya… sach much aa gaya!”
(My child… came without telling… really came back!)
He held her tight. Like he was anchoring himself back to life.
Papa came from inside, confused.
Papa: “Kya hua? Kaun aaya?”
(What happened? Who’s here?)
Then he saw Arpit.
He paused.
Papa: “Tu… tu yahan kaise?”
(You… how are you here?)
Arpit just smiled.
Papa didn’t ask anything more. He didn’t need an explanation. He walked up, touched Arpit’s head gently, then said in his usual calm voice—
“Aa ja. Chai piyega?”
(Come in. Will you have tea?)
Maa had already turned and was shouting from the kitchen:
“Aaj halwa banana chahiye tha! Arre, kya soch ke nahi banaya!”
(I should’ve made halwa today! What was I thinking not making it!)
Arpit laughed. Full, belly-deep laughter—the kind you forget when you're away too long. He sat on the old sofa. The one with the broken spring on the left. The ceiling fan creaked overhead. The air smelled like home.
He looked around. Everything was exactly the same.
Yet, something fundamental had changed.
He hadn’t taken a flight.
He hadn’t stood in immigration queues.
He hadn’t paid 400 euros.
He had simply walked back into his mother’s arms.
Later that night, sipping hot chai in the steel glass, his father flipping channels on the TV, and Maa humming in the kitchen, Arpit sat back and thought—
Why isn’t the world working on this?
Why are we building taller buildings, faster apps, louder cars… but not something that brings a son back to his mother?
Why is love made to wait behind visas and money and miles?
Isn’t this the real progress we need?
Not teleportation for business.
But teleportation for belonging.
For love.
The portal in Gießen shimmered silently in the background.
Waiting.
Because now Arpit knew—he could come home whenever his mother’s heart called him.
And that was the real miracle.
To be continued.
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