I woke up early today. The kind of early where the sun is only beginning to stretch over the rooftops, where the air feels softer and cooler, as if the whole world hasn't yet woken up to its own chaos.
Even though I wasn't going to school, I couldn't waste this morning. Something in me wanted to be… productive, useful. Maybe because deep down, I still couldn't shake off the feeling that these borrowed days at home were precious.
When I tiptoed downstairs, the familiar wooden steps creaking softly, I noticed Appa was already out—his badminton racket, usually leaning on the wall, was missing. Amma was moving around the kitchen, her hair still damp from her bath, cutting vegetables with that calm focus only mothers seem to have
Santhosh, of course, was still in deep sleep upstairs, probably hugging his pillow like it was his best friend.
"Amma," I called softly, leaning on the kitchen doorframe.
She looked up, a little startled. "You're awake so soon, kanna?"
"Yes," I smiled, a sudden idea forming in my head. "Amma… shall I make lunch today?"
Her knife paused mid‑air. "You? Cook?" Her eyebrows went up so high I couldn't help but laugh.
"I know, I know," I said quickly. "Not exactly my specialty. But I… I want to try. What do you think?"
She set the knife down and turned fully toward me, her expression a mix of surprise and amusement. "Do you even know how? Last time I checked, you only enter the kitchen to eat, not to cook."
She wasn't wrong. In my past life, I'd only ever cooked when I was in the mood. And even then, it was just my favorite dishes, not proper everyday food. But after last night, when sleep wouldn't come easily, I had picked up an old cookbook from Amma's shelf and started reading like it was a storybook. The pages smelled of turmeric and time.
"Yes, Amma," I said with newfound determination. "I want to cook today. Let me try, please."
Her face softened into a smile. "Do you need help with anything?"
"No, Amma," I shook my head. "Just… wait for the surprise."
She laughed and raised her hands in surrender. "Okay, madam. The kitchen is yours."
I opened the fridge and spotted a block of paneer sitting in its little packet of whey and two fat potatoes in the vegetable drawer. Instantly, a memory lit up in my mind—Tahiri.
In my hostel life from the previous timeline, my roommate from Uttar Pradesh used to make it in a tiny rice cooker: a light, fragrant vegetable rice with golden potatoes, cubes of paneer, and ghee that made the whole room smell like a festival. Just the memory of it made my mouth water.
I checked for the ingredients one by one like a serious chef: Basmati rice—yes, I rinsed and set it to soak.
Potatoes—peeled and cubed.
Paneer—cut into soft cubes.
Onions—big ones, sliced thin.
Green chilies—slit open for that gentle heat.
Cumin, turmeric, coriander powder, a pinch of garam masala, red chili powder, salt, ghee, and oil—all present in Amma's spice rack like soldiers waiting for orders.
I tied my hair up and rolled my sleeves. "Let's do this," I whispered to myself.
First, I heated a heavy-bottomed pan and added a spoonful of oil and a generous dollop of Amma's homemade ghee. As soon as the cumin seeds hit the hot fat, they sizzled and danced, their nutty fragrance filling the kitchen. Then went in the sliced onions, turning translucent and soft, caramelizing into a sweet golden brown.
The two green chilies joined them, popping slightly as I stirred. Next, the cubed potatoes tumbled in with a hiss, coated quickly with turmeric, red chili powder, and coriander powder. The smell changed instantly—earthy, warm, comforting.
I lowered the flame, letting the potatoes soften, their edges catching just a little bit of brown. Then I added the paneer cubes, so soft I had to stir gently to keep them whole. A pinch of garam masala sprinkled like a secret ingredient.
By now, Amma had peeked in twice, leaning on the doorframe with folded arms, but she didn't interrupt. I could feel her quiet pride like sunlight on my back.
"Smells good," she said softly.
I grinned. "Just wait, Amma."
Finally, I drained the soaked basmati rice and added it to the pan, each grain glistening as I stirred carefully, mixing it with the spiced potatoes and paneer. Two cups of water followed, a pinch more salt, and I let it come to a gentle boil. Then I lowered the flame, covered it with Amma's old steel lid, and waited.
The steam curled out slowly, filling the kitchen with the faint perfume of ghee and spices. I stood there, arms folded, feeling a strange satisfaction. Maybe this is why people love cooking—not just for the food, but for the rhythm of it, the simple joy of creating something.
When the water had disappeared and the rice looked fluffy and light, I drizzled another spoon of ghee on top and covered it again to rest.
"Amma," I called, "lunch is ready."
She walked in, wiping her hands on her saree pallu, and peeked into the pot. "Tahiri?" she guessed immediately, eyes widening.
"How did you think of making this? I never cooked this for you guys."
I laughed. "Yes. I found this in the "1000 Vegetarian Indian Rice Dishes" recipe book. Try it and tell me how it is."
Amma tasted a spoonful, her eyes closing for a second as if savoring it. Then she opened them and smiled. "You've done well, kanna. Very well."
A warmth spread through me—this was more than just cooking. It was a little victory, a little bridge between who I used to be and who I was becoming.
And as the morning light streamed into our kitchen, I felt proud.
Amma lifted her head from the spice rack and looked at me, curious."So… how are you planning to pack this, kanna?"
I thought for a second, leaning on the counter. "A small box of tomato pickle… a box of thick curd… and pappad for starters. What do you think? If we pack this, it will be perfect, right?"
Her face lit up with approval. "That's a good idea. If you want something light, have it with curd. If you want something with a kick, then the pickle. Simple and neat."
I nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! Then tell me, Amma, how many tiffin boxes do we have? I think I need… three."
"Three?" She frowned, amused. "Where are you planning to go, kanna? Are you distributing lunch on the street?"
I laughed and started stacking the shiny steel boxes. "I'm going to the office."
Before Amma could ask more, Appa entered, adjusting the strap of his watch. "Who is coming to the office?"
"Me, Appa," I said, almost bouncing on my toes. "I have some work to do on the computer, so I thought I'd use the extra system in your office. And… you know… spend the day with you."
Appa's face broke into a proud smile. "So… work with Dad, ah? All right. I'll finish my morning files, and when you're done, we'll come home together. Deal?"
"Deal!" I grinned.
Amma was already reaching for the curd pot. "Okay, okay… I'll pack now. Three boxes it is. One for you, one for your father, and… the third?"
"Santhosh," I said with a cheeky grin. "I feel sorry if he miss this, so this is his Lunch no options for him."
She shook her head, laughing softly as she spooned the thick, creamy curd into one box, layered the fragrant tahiri into another, and slipped a small packet of crispy pappads on the side. The smell of ghee and rice made me proud all over again.
"Mom, I'll help," I said, reaching for the lids. "I'll pack the pickle myself."
So there we were—Amma folding her saree pleats neatly as she worked, me balancing the tiffin boxes, Appa checking his phone for office messages. The kitchen hummed with the small sounds of a family morning: the clink of steel, the aroma of home‑cooked food, the rustle of paper napkins.
By the time we finished, Amma wiped her hands and looked at me with a soft smile. "Such a productive Monday morning start, kanna."
I nodded, hugging her quickly before grabbing the tiffin bag. "Let's go, Appa! Today we're a team."
And just like that, our day began—not just with food, but with a quiet, shared happiness.