After the long shopping spree with Appa, we were both tired, but my eyes lit up the moment I spotted a roadside parotta stall. That familiar sight—the man flipping the dough high in the air, the sizzle of parottas hitting the hot tawa, the unmistakable aroma of salna simmering beside it—felt like the final reward for the day.
"Appa… shall we get parotta for dinner?" I asked without even hiding the excitement in my voice.
He smiled. "Of course! What do you want?"
I quickly put together the order in my head like a puzzle. Nine regular parottas and one veechu parotta—the crispier, flakier ones—for me and my brother to share. Kothu parotta for Appa, because he always prefers spicy, chopped-up messier things. And salna(the special gravy made for parotta), of course. "Appa, both veg and non-veg salna," I reminded him, "because Amma won't touch the meat one." And don't forget coconut chutney, I don't think I will get coconut chutney with parota in Chennai.
Appa thought for a second and replied "It's very rare. eating parota with coconut chutney is a kind of kongu region eating habit. you get it very rarely when you travel to other parts of Tamil Nadu even inside the same state. I think you get Onions and curd with parota there" he replied. I will never get comfortable with the parotta and onion combo.
He called Amma on speaker and told her not to do anything. "Nila spotted a parotta kadai. She's treating us tonight."
I butted in, "Also ask if we have small onions, green chilies, pepper, and butter at home. I'll make omelets fresh instead of buying roadside ones."
She said yes to everything. "Perfect," I said, "then Appa, just give me fifteen rupees for the egg, I'll grab them from the shop next to our street."
He laughed. "Why no ready-made omelettes?"
"What's the use of spending thirty rupees on a cold omelet, Appa? I can make four fresh ones for fifteen bucks. Better taste and better budget," I said, smug with pride. It was a college-life hack from my past life that stuck with me like second nature.
Appa was visibly impressed. "Look at you, little budget queen," he teased.
"One more thing," I said, holding up a finger dramatically, "while packing, ask them to give four banana leaves. I want each of us to eat from one. It's not just food—it's an experience."
He raised his eyebrows, clearly enjoying my bossiness.
We reached home around 7 PM, and I immediately took charge. "Amma, don't even think about coming into the kitchen tonight. Since you got a break from cooking dinner, it's a full break. Go sit down."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but I gave her the 'I'm not budging' glare.
I walked into the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves, and found everything I needed on the counter. Amma had already diced the shallots and chilies, just like I asked. I sautéed them with butter, cracked the eggs, and added pepper and a little salt, and the entire kitchen filled with that spicy buttery smell that instantly makes you hungry, even if you're not.
Meanwhile, I ordered my brother around. "Go set the balcony. Take the water bottles, emergency lamp, four glasses, and the banana leaves. Set the food neatly. And don't forget tissues!"
"Emergency lamp?" he asked.
"To make it easy to look at food and dramatic. Moonlight dinner vibes," I said, grinning.
He groaned, but he did it anyway.
And that's how we ended up sitting as a family on the first-floor balcony, under the gentle moonlight, eating parottas off banana leaves, with salna dripping down our fingers and laughter filling the air.
There was something magical about that moment—something that said, "This is the kind of day you'll remember when you're sixty."
My brother had a splendid time going through all my purchases and showing off to Amma as if he owned everything. I was too tired from the day's rush. After dinner, I retired to my room with the spoils of war.
I looked at the corner where the growing pile of things I'd bought had started forming a mini mountain on the table. One cotton box was already full, and I knew another pile was waiting at the tailor's shop. I pulled out a fresh journal and a pencil and began jotting down all the important events in my life. Lying down on the bed, I thought about my past life, my present life, and the dreamy mix they've become. I'm still floating inside that surreal feeling.
In my past life, I had regrets. Not that my life was full of sadness—I had my share of joyful moments. But what I regret the most is not cherishing those moments. I was the one who stubbornly cried and begged to be sent to a hostel instead of being a day scholar at the lovely, homely school near home.
Till 8th grade, I studied just two kilometers from home—from second grade onwards, actually—and my brother joined that same school from kindergarten. That school felt more like home than a school. We were pampered. Teachers genuinely cared about us, helped us discover our talents, and made sure those little moments were cherished. It was beautiful.
But back then, I used to see my friends going off to hostels, and also… my brother has ADHD. I'll talk more about that later. But because of his condition, I found it difficult to get along with him at home. We fought a lot. When things got physical, I was the one scolded. My parents always said, "You're five years older, you should be more mature."
At 12, it was hard for me to understand that. I felt like I was already drowning. I was about to enter 9th grade—where, in India, life started getting serious. Parents, schools, and society start pressuring you for marks and future plans. I thought, If I stayed home and kept fighting, I wouldn't be able to study at all. So I begged my parents to let me join a hostel.
Academically, I always scored well—above 95%. I was studying under the CBSE syllabus. In India, there are five major education boards: CBSE, ICSE, IB, NIOS, and AISSCE. Each one has its own curriculum style, assessment criteria, and exam boards. I just thought CBSE was too easy and figured switching to ICSE would challenge me more for high school.
Oh god, I was so wrong.
We thought of applying to the prestigious convent schools in Ooty—those beautiful old institutions that are 100 to 200 years old. But I had no idea how hard it was to get in—you had to start applying years in advance! Luckily, one of Appa's friends recommended me to another school. That's how I ended up joining Maharishi Vidya Mandir, Sriperumbudur branch near Kanchipuram, not the Chetpet main branch that most people know. The Sriperumbudur campus was famous for its structured hostel system and the range of coaching it offered.
I only went to visit it, but I accidentally cracked their entrance exam and got admitted. It was shockingly easy compared to the convents. I didn't realize the value of the place—the friendships, the education, the diversity—while I was still studying there.
It's a residential school, so I met people from across India. Though most were South Indian, I also made a few North Indian friends. Those years changed me. I matured faster, learned independence, and got exposure to a bigger world. Coming from a Tier-2 town, even though our infrastructure was decent, living and studying in a semi-urban part of Chennai gave me a fresh kind of exposure.
It took me two full years to adapt. Then a few more to realize: this life isn't permanent. Midnight talks, silly fights, Maggi sessions—they all become cherished memories someday.
That school became a stepping stone. Because of this, I joined a top college in my state. Through an exchange program, I even studied in the UK for my bachelor's. That exposure made me brave enough to explore North India for my master's. And then came COVID.
Even COVID-19 didn't scare me. I flew abroad, came back, and survived lockdowns without feeling trapped. Being locked indoors for nearly a year didn't shake me. Life threw challenges, but nothing shook me to the point of collapse. And for that, I thank Maharishi School.
Later, when Appa almost went bankrupt when I was 25, I was able to support him—not financially, but emotionally. This time, in this rebirth, I will support him financially too.
Losing loved ones during the pandemic, and fighting social pressure to get married by 25—it was all too much. Society makes it feel like not being married at 25 is some crime. Oh God, the way they push.
But this time, I'm making a new promise to myself.
For the next 4 years, I don't plan on earning money. I'll be in a hostel, living each moment fully. But after that—I want to become financially independent. I'll lay all the groundwork while I'm still in the hostel.
Since I know how the future might unfold—natural disasters, economic changes, personal losses—I think this is the cheat code I got through this rebirth. And I'll use it well. I won't get cocky. I'll live each day with joy and responsibility. I'll make sure I'm ready for the new challenges this life brings.