🌿 Flashback: The Braid and the Chocolate

The house was still. No clinking dishes, no footsteps in the hallway. Aanya sat on the edge of her bed; the worn-out photo album open in her lap. The edges were frayed, the pages dotted with faint fingerprints and time-faded ink. Her fingers brushed over a picture of her mother—laughing, mid-spin, in a cotton sari printed with tiny marigolds.

A small sigh escaped Aanya’s lips.

As if tugged by memory, her vision blurred slightly, and the moment folded in on itself like a page being turned backwards—

She was nine. Her mother’s warm hands moved through her hair with a rhythm only love could craft. A light breeze wafted in through the open window, carrying the scent of rain and hibiscus.

“Don’t tie it too tight, Ma,” Aanya giggled.

“Then don’t wriggle so much,” her mother replied with a smile in her voice. “You’ll thank me when the wind doesn’t undo your braid by lunch.”

Aanya stilled, letting her mother hum that same song again—the one without words. She’d asked once what it meant, and her mother said, “It doesn’t need meaning. It just needs to feel like home.”

She could still remember the rhythm—gentle and swaying, like river water in the sun.

Her mother finished braiding and tucked a soft purple ribbon at the end. “There. Neat as a pencil line.”

Aanya turned to hug her, burying her face in her mother’s sari. It smelled of talcum powder and cardamom.

As she reached for her school bag, her mother slipped something into the side pocket—a folded napkin.

“What’s this?” Aanya asked, peeking inside.

“Just a little something sweet,” her mother winked. “But only after math class. If the teacher catches you, you didn’t get it from me.”

It was a tiny homemade chocolate, shaped like a star. She never told anyone, but that was her favourite part of every school day—finding that unexpected sweetness, even when everything else felt hard.

The memory dissolved like sugar in tea.