The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, and with a sigh of relief, I grabbed my bag and joined the usual crowd of students pouring out of the classrooms. My brothers, the twin monkeys, were already waiting near the primary school gate, their identical faces lit up with mischief and energy that no amount of school could drain.
"Akka, can we get bajjis today?" one of them asked, while the other added, "And ice cream too! Please, please, please!"
"No bajjis, no ice cream," I said firmly, though my tone softened when I saw their exaggerated puppy-dog eyes. "We'll have idly and chutney for dinner. Now behave, or I'll tell Amma you didn't do your homework."
That shut them up for a good five minutes, and in our world, that was a miracle. We took the bus home, the boys chattering nonstop about their day—apparently, some classmate of theirs had sneezed so loudly it scared their teacher. I laughed despite myself, grateful for their ability to find joy in the smallest things.
Once home, I switched into full-on big sister mode. "Homework first!" I declared, pointing them to the small table where their schoolbooks waited. To their credit, they sat down without too much protest, though I'm sure I saw them exchanging plans for sneaking in a cricket match later.
While they worked, I moved to the kitchen. Dinner was a straightforward affair—idly from pre-made batter and a quick, fiery chutney that Amma would insist was too spicy. I had just started grinding the chutney when I overheard snippets of their conversation.
"Do you think Akka will notice if we hide a ball in our bag tomorrow?" one of them whispered.
"She'll know! Akka knows everything. She's like… like Gopi Sir in disguise."
I smirked. They weren't entirely wrong.
By the time the idlies were steaming, the twins had declared homework done and were hovering around the kitchen like two hungry cats. "Wash your hands and sit," I instructed, placing their plates on the small dining table. They dug in with the enthusiasm only ten-year-olds could muster, and for a brief moment, the house felt warm, alive.
After dinner, I shooed them off to brush their teeth and change into their pajamas. They didn't need bedtime stories anymore; they were mature enough to fall asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow. As I tucked them in, one of them mumbled, "Good night, Akka," while the other added, "Thanks for the chutney. It was spicy, but good."
"Good night, monkeys," I said softly, switching off the light.
With the house finally quiet, I sat in the living room, letting the day's events replay in my mind. School, exams, Gopi Sir's announcements, Kavi's endless questions, and… Aadav. Always Aadav. It was frustrating, this stupid crush that refused to leave me alone. I hated how my thoughts circled back to him, how every little thing he did seemed magnified in my mind. But there was also something oddly comforting about it, as if liking him was my secret way of keeping something just for myself.
I sighed and turned my attention to the door, waiting for Amma to return. It was late, as usual. Her job at Professor Aasha's house often stretched into the night, and though I hated how hard she worked, I knew we had no choice. The extra money Amma earned there was the only reason we could survive.
When she finally walked in, her face was drawn, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. "Amma," I greeted, taking her bag and leading her to the kitchen. "Dinner is ready. Idly and chutney."
She nodded wordlessly, sitting down at the table. I placed the plate in front of her and watched as she ate in silence. Amma wasn't the same woman she had been before Appa's death. The spark in her eyes had dimmed, her laughter a distant memory. She moved through life like a machine, her only purpose to ensure we had food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over our heads. It hurt to see her like this, but I understood. She was carrying the weight of our family, and that was no small burden.
"How was your day, Amma?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"Busy," she replied. "But Professor Aasha was kind today. She sent some sweets for you and the boys."
"That's nice of her," I said, though my heart ached at the thought of Amma's long hours. "Amma, you should rest more. You work too hard."
She looked at me then, her eyes tired but filled with a determination I recognized all too well. "I'll rest when I know you three are settled," she said simply. "Until then, this is my life."
I wanted to argue, to tell her she didn't have to do it all alone, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I squeezed her hand and said, "We'll make you proud, Amma. I promise."
After dinner, Amma went to her room, and I sat alone in the living room, the weight of the day pressing down on me. I missed being a carefree kid, missed the days when my biggest worry was whether Amma would let me play outside after school. Life had changed so much since Appa's accident. We had all grown up too fast, especially me.
But even in the midst of all this, there was a strange sense of hope. I had my brothers, my Amma, and my secret dreams of a better future. And maybe, just maybe, I had the courage to face whatever life threw my way.
The next day, as usual, I woke my brothers, packed their lunches, and ate the breakfast Amma had made. We set off for school together, the twins dragging their feet as if their bags weighed a ton.
"Akka, do we really have to go today? Can't we take a holiday?" one of them whined.
"No holidays unless you're sick," I replied sternly, though their exaggerated groans made me smile.
As we reached the school, I dropped them off at the primary building and made my way to the secondary school. But as I entered, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The air felt charged, as if everyone knew a secret I wasn't privy to. Students were huddled in groups, whispering and glancing around nervously.
Still, I pushed the thought aside. Whatever it was, it didn't concern me. I had more important things to focus on—like preparing for the upcoming exams. With a deep breath, I headed to class, determined to give it my all. After all, that's what Appa would have wanted.