The Scrunchie That Wasn’t

 It was during the summer holidays when I was in 8th standard. At Navodaya, holidays never came without homework. After final exams in March, we’d start classes again in April, and proper holidays only came in May and June. That summer, I was home with my Achamma.

I was very close to her. She would always gently remind me to complete my schoolwork—never scolding, just soft encouragement. If I felt like studying, I’d sit in the veranda with my books. If not, I’d pick up the books and disappear into the bedroom—my little escape plan.

Since I was short, I had to climb on the bed to reach the latch and lock the bedroom door from inside. That way, no one could sneak up on me to check if I was actually studying! That day too, after Achamma’s reminder, I did the same routine.

But I wasn’t done yet. The windows! Achamma might still try to peek in through them. So I climbed onto the window slab to close the top windowpanes. That’s when I saw something sitting on the edge—black and white, round and fluffy. For a moment, I thought it was one of those big scrunchies that were trending. Maybe Amma or my sister had left it there?

I looked closer.

And then—it moved. Just a little.

And that’s when I realized—it was not a scrunchie.

It was a snake.

I froze. It felt like a high-voltage current passed through me. Somehow, I scrambled down from the slab, jumped onto the bed, and wrestled the latch open. It took what felt like forever. Then I ran straight to Achamma and told her what I’d seen.

In our place, snakes were not unusual. Calm as ever, Achamma picked up a stick and followed me. First, she gently asked, “Why did you close all the doors and windows?”

I told her I couldn’t concentrate on studies otherwise. She just gave a small smile.

She opened the window slowly and poked the snake, saying “Shoo, shoo.” Then she turned to me and said, “It’s a krait. Very poisonous. A krait's bite can be deadly- people can die within a short period of time." 

The snake slipped out through the window and into a pile of wooden pieces kept just outside. Achamma asked me to run and call her nephew from the neighbouring house.

He came and tapped around the wood pile to try and bring the snake out, but nothing appeared. Everyone assumed it had gone.

Later that evening, all of us—me, my sister, Achamma, Amma, and Pappa—were sitting on the veranda. It was covered with iron grills, and along the inside of the grill there was a slab. My sister was sitting on it, just above the wooden pile outside.

We were talking about the snake when Amma joked, “Deepa, what if the snake is behind you? You’re sitting right next to the wood area!”

My sister turned around with fear.

And to our shock—the snake was really behind her.

Panic again! Me and my sister ran to the neighbour’s house. Meanwhile, Pappa and a few others rushed in, and by the time we returned, they had already killed the snake.

To this day, I’ve never been that close to one again.

And I still wonder—how in the world did I ever mistake it for a scrunchie?!

The Mysterious Van in Our Yard

 I must have been in third or fourth standard. My grandmother was staying with her youngest son, my sister had started going to my mother’s school, and I was doing something that made me feel a little grown-up — carrying our house key.

Every morning, Amma would lock the doors and leave for school. If I came home first, I’d open the door myself, go inside, and usually find some snack Amma had lovingly prepared and kept in the fridge.

One such day, I returned from school like usual. As I reached our gate, I noticed something odd — a van was parked in our front yard.

A van! That was not a common sight for us. None of our relatives or neighbors owned one. My heart skipped a beat.

Back then, in almost every movie I watched, vans were the ultimate sign of danger — used for kidnappings or robberies. I immediately started remembering all the villain scenes from the Home Alone movies. My imagination ran wild. What if someone had come to steal our things?

Trying to stay calm and act brave, I slowly walked toward the van. There was no one inside. That made it worse — I was sure they were already inside the house.

I tiptoed around to the windows and whispered a shaky, “Helloooo…”

No response.

I said it again, louder this time. Still silence.

By then, my heart was pounding like a drum. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran to our neighbor’s house, which was actually my granny’s younger brother’s home. I told them everything — except the fact that I was scared out of my mind!

They smiled and told me it was just my cousin who had parked his van there for the night. He had informed them and asked them to let us know.

I felt such a wave of relief. With a bit more confidence now, I walked back home, opened the door, and got back to my regular routine — probably grabbing that snack from the fridge like nothing had happened.

But that day, I had my own mini movie moment. And maybe, just maybe, I was a little braver than I thought.

Navodaya – My Accidental Escape Plan

 I was never the studious kind of kid. My sister, on the other hand, was the definition of studious. At home, she was the star everyone had their hopes pinned on. So, when she scored 92% in her 10th board exams—her lowest ever score—our house was filled with silence and long faces. Meanwhile, when I got 73.5%, my parents were celebrating like I had cracked the IAS!

That’s when I figured out life’s secret: keep expectations low and overdeliver. (Haha, works every time!)

My father was deeply invested in my sister’s education. Since we couldn’t afford to send her to an English-medium school, he bought English-medium textbooks and taught her both English and Malayalam syllabi at home. In my memory, she was always surrounded by books. And honestly, I used to wonder, “Why do I have this kind of sister?” I had imagined someone who liked to play—not someone who lived inside textbooks!

One day, our teacher announced that applications were open for the Navodaya Entrance Exam. My sister was in 10th at the time, and I knew she’d be leaving for hostel soon. And that meant one thing—my turn under Pappa’s academic microscope was coming next. That’s when I saw the Navodaya exam as my golden escape.

I asked my father if I could apply. Without even blinking, my parents said yes—with full confidence that I wouldn’t clear it. After all, my genius sister had once tried and didn’t get through. So their logic was, “Let this little one dream.”

After that, whenever someone told me to study, I’d pick up my sister’s Navodaya entrance guide or my father’s bank test books and start solving picture-based questions. To me, it was like solving puzzles, not studying.

Finally, the exam day arrived. My father came with me to the center. Just before the bell rang, he said, “Let me quickly have a cup of tea.” (Classic Pappa! He always wants tea right before something important.) The bell rang and he wasn’t back yet—but I didn’t wait. I went ahead and gave the exam.

Afterward, most kids were saying it was an easy paper. I wasn’t so sure—I knew I had gotten at least three questions wrong. So I didn’t expect anything. Neither did my parents. We didn’t even check the result when it came out.

But my teacher did. And she came to school with the big news—I had cleared the exam!

I was thrilled. I rushed home and told my mother, and we double-checked the newspaper just to be sure. While I was on cloud nine, my parents were quiet. Now, both of their children were heading to hostel. The thought of an empty home was hard on them.

I remember having a heated conversation with Pappa. I told him I had earned this and he couldn’t stop me from going. Eventually, he agreed—not because he was okay with it, but because he didn’t want to be the one holding me back.

Back then, I didn’t understand the pain they were feeling. I was too excited about my new beginning. But today, as a mother of two, I finally get it. I understand that silence. That ache. That strange feeling of pride mixed with heartbreak when you watch your children take their next step without you.

A Bowl of Kanji and a Touch of God

That week, it was just Achan and me at home. Amma had gone to be with my sister, who was pregnant. The house felt unusually quiet.

From my teenage years, I was never much of a talker with my parents. My mornings would begin only after they had left for work. Amma, as always, would leave food ready for me. I’d wake up late, eat slowly, and then spend the entire day in front of the TV. Just before they were due back, I’d rush to take a bath—pretending I’d been active all along.

But that day was different. I wasn’t feeling well.

I slowly got out of bed and went to the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. There wasn’t much—just a few slices of bread. I ate a bit and lay down again. My body felt tired, but more than that, I felt lonely. I missed Amma deeply. If she had been home, she would have noticed without me saying a word. She would have made kanji—warm rice porridge—and that simple yet comforting curd with crushed green chilies that she always gave me when I was unwell.

As I was drowning in those thoughts, I suddenly heard the sound of the front gate. My heart jumped. Achan had told me not to open the door for anyone. Still, curiosity got the better of me.

It was my aunt.

The moment I saw her, something in me lit up. I opened the door, and she asked gently, “How are you feeling?”

I just said, “Can you please make me some kanji?”

She didn’t ask anything more. She quietly walked into the kitchen and started cooking. Soon, the smell of boiling rice filled the house, wrapping me in warmth and comfort. That first spoon of kanji tasted like a mother’s hug. It wasn’t just food—it was love served warm, Amma’s care in another form.

That day, I truly believed what I’d always heard:

Sometimes, when you need them the most, God comes not in grand miracles—but through the simple kindness of the people who love us.

Much later, Amma told me over the phone—it was she who had asked my aunt to drop by, sensing somehow that I might need someone.