The soft rustle of trees and the faint chirping of birds filtered into my room as I stirred awake. For once, I had woken up before everyone else. I blinked at the ceiling, my heart oddly calm. Today felt different. Sacred, even.
I sat up and rushed to Santhosh's room, nudging him gently. "Wake up, Kanna. Let's go cycling. And today, we're going to the temple in the evening, remember? Special pooja before I leave."
He grunted, covering his face with the pillow.
"Don't you want to pluck flowers for it?" I added, tickling his feet. That did the trick. He sat up sleepily, nodding.
By the time we got out with our bicycles, the sun was still gentle, casting a golden hue over our sleepy neighborhood. The early morning roads felt different—empty, peaceful, and ours to claim.
Santhosh wore a wide smile as he pedaled next to me. "Which flowers are we looking for again?"
"Hibiscus, jasmine, roses, marigold, thulasi, Nerium oleander… and mainly Arugampul for Ganesha," I said, ticking them off on my fingers.
We first stopped by an old neighbor's house, with permission from the aunt there, and carefully plucked hibiscus and marigolds from the overgrown fence. The scent of jasmine led us next to a quiet lane where a retired postmaster had a small garden patch he always let neighborhood kids pick from. He waved at us warmly when he saw us.
Santhosh climbed over the low compound walls carefully while I held the basket. By the time we reached the edge of our usual cycling trail, we'd collected enough flowers to make a proper garland. For the Arugampul, we stopped near an open field. I helped Santhosh identify the flat, slender blades that stood out amidst the other grass.
"Why do we need this one especially?" he asked, holding the green blades reverently.
"It's Ganesha's favorite. Arugampul represents purity and simplicity, and it's said to remove obstacles. Perfect for new beginnings," I replied, tucking a few extra strands into his basket.
By the time we returned home, Appa was just finishing his coffee. Amma had already begun writing out the pooja list on a piece of yellow-lined paper and handed it to Appa before he left for the shop. "Don't forget, please. One coconut, camphor, betel leaves, turmeric, kumkum, bananas, and a small lemon garland if you can find it."
"Seri," (okay)Appa nodded. "I'll get everything before I return."
We all sat down for breakfast as a family—Amma had made hot pongal and coconut chutney, and Santhosh proudly placed the flower basket in the middle of the table like a trophy.
After Appa left, the three of us sat cross-legged on the floor with threads, needles, and tiny flower baskets around us. The room smelled like a temple itself—earthy, sweet, and full of devotion.
Amma started first, skillfully stringing jasmine with rose. "Don't poke your fingers," she warned, handing me the thinnest needle.
Santhosh began clumsily but with so much enthusiasm, carefully threading alternating hibiscus and marigold petals, humming a tune under his breath.
As I worked on my section of the garland, I looked around the room. The quiet rhythm of stitching flowers together, the breeze fluttering through the curtains, Amma's gentle instructions, and Santhosh's occasional giggles—it was all so ordinary, yet it felt like I was bottling up something magical. A moment that would carry me through homesickness and hostel chaos.
"Amma," I said softly, "thanks for helping us do this. I know you're busy, but I really wanted to start this next part of life with blessings."
She paused, looking at me. "Of course, ma. Going away doesn't mean forgetting who you are. This... this is our way of remembering."
After the last garland was tied neatly into a circle and set aside in a steel plate, Amma stretched her arms and smiled. "Now that the flowers are done, let's get the prasadam ready. We'll make puliyodarai and panchamirtham, okay?"
"Yesss!" Santhosh jumped up excitedly. "I'll help with the fruits!"
"You can help cut them for the panchamirtham," Amma said, handing him the small fruit chopper. "And you better not eat half of them while chopping!"
Santhosh gave a mischievous grin and ran to wash the bananas and apples.
"Amma, let's make the panchamirtham first?" I asked, laying out the ingredients on the counter.
She nodded and began calling out instructions like a cooking show host. "We'll need ripe bananas, apples, dates, raisins, jaggery syrup, honey, ghee, cardamom powder, and a little bit of rock sugar."
I pulled out two ripe bananas and handed them to Santhosh. He plopped them into the chopper, slicing with satisfying crunches.
"Next the apple," Amma reminded, "chop it into tiny cubes."
"Tiny cubes coming right up!" he declared like a junior chef, placing the apple into the slicer and pressing hard with both hands. Pieces scattered everywhere, some falling onto the floor, which he quickly picked up and popped into his mouth. "Oops," he grinned.
"Save some for Lord Ganesha, kanna!" I laughed, handing him the dates next. "Deseed them first!"
I, meanwhile, added a spoonful of ghee to a small kadai and roasted the raisins until they puffed up like little balloons. Amma mashed the bananas with a fork in a steel bowl and mixed in the apple and date pieces, the roasted raisins, and a few rock sugar crystals. Then she poured in honey and the jaggery syrup we had made earlier, stirring everything into a golden-brown paste that smelled divine.
"Add a pinch of cardamom powder," Amma instructed.
I sprinkled some, and Santhosh, unable to resist, dipped his finger into the edge of the bowl. "Mmmm! Best ever!"
"It's not ready yet, mister," Amma warned playfully, "and don't forget—prasadam is not to be tasted before offering!"
Santhosh made a dramatic face and folded his hands. "Sorry, Lord Ganesha."
We all chuckled.
Once the panchamirtham was ready, Amma covered it and moved on to the puliyodarai. The kitchen filled with the spicy-tangy aroma that always made me nostalgic. I remembered school pooja days when Amma would pack the same puliyodarai in banana leaves for the whole class.
"Now, listen carefully," she said, heating sesame oil in a wide iron kadai. "First, mustard seeds. Then chana dal and urad dal."
I watched the mustard seeds pop like tiny fireworks, followed by the dals turning golden brown. She added dried red chillies, curry leaves, and a pinch of hing.
I fetched the tamarind pulp Amma had soaked earlier and poured it into the kadai. The mix hissed and sizzled, releasing a rich, earthy scent that made Santhosh's mouth water.
"You can add jaggery to balance the spice," Amma said, dropping a small lump in. She then added turmeric, salt, and a bit of ground roasted coriander and fenugreek powder. The whole mixture bubbled away into a thick, glossy paste.
"Now the cooked rice," Amma instructed. I carefully spread the hot rice over a wide plate to cool and then mixed in the tamarind paste little by little, folding it gently to coat every grain. The oil made it shiny, and the smell—oh, the smell—made Santhosh hover near the plate like a hungry puppy.
"It's perfect, Amma," I said, tasting a speck from the edge with her permission.
She smiled, tying her hair back again. "That's the prasadam for the evening. We'll pack it into steel containers and take some plantain leaves along to serve at the temple."
The kitchen now smelled like tradition and comfort—pungent tamarind, earthy ghee, sweet jaggery, and sharp cardamom. It felt like a sacred offering even before it reached the idol.
Santhosh packed the panchamirtham into a container with a tight lid while I laid out two small banana leaves and placed the garlands and prasadam containers near the door, ready to take to the temple in the evening.
We all sat back on the floor, a little tired, a lot satisfied.
"This feels like the perfect way to begin something new," I said softly, and Amma nodded.
"New paths are always better when walked with blessings," she said, smoothing the edge of her saree.
Santhosh piped up, "And with yummy prasadam!"
We laughed, our hearts full, as the smell of devotion lingered in the air.