After we returned to our class lines, we stood still for the national anthem. For those exact 52 seconds—maybe a full minute—the entire school stood united. No matter the fights, group politics, or drama, this one moment felt pure. Together. Equal. Proud. I closed my eyes, sang every word clearly, and let it wash over me. It was one of those rare feelings that made me quietly thankful to be born in this country, no matter its flaws.
When the anthem ended and we were dismissed for breakfast, students started walking off in groups. Just as I turned toward the mess hall, our class teacher approached me with a smirk.
"So… you kept this a surprise from even me?"
I blinked. "Ma'am… it wasn't intentional! It was actually a last-minute plan."
"Last-minute? Like… when exactly?"
"Yesterday night. During study time. Around 7 PM," I admitted, sheepishly.
She shook her head, clearly amused. "Wow. And yet, you pulled it off so cleanly. How are you so efficient with everything you do?"
I laughed. "Honestly, ma'am… I just like doing things with a full heart. That's all."
"Well, your announcement today worked," she said, her voice a little softer now. "You had the entire ground paying attention. It was well-phrased, confident, and impactful."
"That was the plan," I grinned. "Buy attention first. Then impress them."
She chuckled and let me go join the queue for breakfast.
The line was long, winding outside the dining hall doors. I stood patiently, and soon the smell of ghee, pepper, and curry leaves reached me. Pongal and medhu vada. Of course. The reactions from the crowd were mixed. Some girls were visibly disappointed.
"Ugh, why always Pongal on Friday?"
"I'm just taking bread and jam."
But me? I was thrilled. I loved hot Pongal with pepper and ghee. And the crispy medhu vada on the side? A bonus.
I heard a few others mumble complaints about hostel food being bland or repetitive, and I had to hold back a smile. If only they knew.
In my past life, after I finished school and moved on, food wasn't something I could take for granted. The first two years in PSG College Hostel—honestly, I missed the variety and homely taste we got here in school. Then came my one-year exchange program to the UK. That was a whole new level of inconvenience. Cooking every day, grocery budgeting, and struggling to make rasam taste like rasam. I got so lazy I basically lived on cereal and instant noodles most days.
And when I shifted to Delhi for my master's? Their version of South Indian food was a cruel joke. Watery sambar, dry chutney, and Pongal that tasted like boiled rice porridge with no soul. That's when I stopped complaining about food—forever.
So now, in this second chance at life, I wasn't just going to eat breakfast. I was going to savour it.
I collected my tray. The Pongal was steaming, soft, and slightly gooey—just the way I liked it. The medhu vada was crisp and perfectly round. I poured a little sambar on the side, added a spoonful of coconut chutney, and found my seat at our usual table.
I took the first bite, closed my eyes, and whispered to myself, "This is heaven."
No mess. No dishes to clean. No cooking. Tasty. Warm. Free.
Yes, I was going to enjoy this phase of my life—every bit of it. Especially the food.
And most of all, I was going to remember this: how lucky I am to get a second chance. To sit here, in uniform, eating a hot South Indian breakfast with zero adult responsibilities.
I was going to stop worrying about people who chose to distance themselves from me.
I had a full life ahead, and I wasn't wasting even a second.
At the dining table, I noticed something strange.
All the girls were staring at me.
It wasn't hostile. More like… puzzled admiration?
Jai Harini leaned toward me and whispered, "Do you really like this?"
I looked down at my plate, confused. "What's wrong with it?"
She raised her eyebrows. "It's Pongal."
"Yes… and?"
Prerna, sitting opposite me, finally voiced what others were thinking. "It's gooey. I mean, it's soft and mushy. I don't like this texture."
I paused for a second, then shrugged. "I don't like the dry texture of aloo paratha. Can I say that means it's not tasty?"
She blinked. "But most of India prefers aloo paratha for breakfast."
"Exactly," I said, calmly. "And most of South India prefers Pongal or idli or dosa. We grow up with what our tongues are trained to love our culture which survived for centuris. But that doesn't mean one is superior. Or inferior."
Pavani, always the curious one, leaned forward. "Wait, are you saying these South Indian foods have history?"
I smiled. "Yes. Pongal isn't just breakfast—it's culture. It's connected to harvest festivals, to temple rituals, to seasonal transitions. Some of our foods—like Pongal, idli, or even dosai—can be traced back to Sangam literature. That's 4th or 5th century, if not older. You'll find mentions of rice and lentils cooked with ghee in ancient Tamil poetry."
They all went silent, and for once, I didn't feel like I was bragging.
I was just sharing something deeply rooted in me. Something I didn't value enough in my past life.
"So," I continued, "I'm not saying you should start loving South Indian cuisine. Just… try different foods, from every place. See how it feels in your mouth. See how it makes your heart feel. If you don't like it—that's a personal opinion. But don't say it's because of where it came from."
Prerna looked thoughtful. She wasn't offended. She seemed… open.
"Sorry," she said softly. "I guess I've always skipped Pongal day. I never thought about it like that. I'll try different foods. Without prejudice."
I smiled, genuinely happy. "That's all I was trying to say."
"To make you feel better," I added, grinning, "I love chole bhature more than poori. And I'd fight anyone for a plate of pav bhaji."
That cracked them up. Even Prerna burst out laughing. Just like that, the awkward wall we had built around ourselves the last few days crumbled.
We laughed, ate, and teased each other, just like old times.
The loud dining hall didn't feel crowded anymore—it felt warm.
I remembered a Chinese saying I once read online: "Everything can be solved over a meal."
Maybe it was true.
Because today, with nothing but Pongal and medhu vada in front of us, we solved a whole lot more than just breakfast preferences. We restored our balance.
As we carried our plates to the sink and cleaned up, I felt light inside. No resentment. No lingering annoyance. Just a soft relief that some things don't need long conversations or dramatic apologies. Sometimes, all it takes is sharing a table—and really being there.
Back in the corridor, I caught Shivanie di waving at me. She already had the printouts of the posters I gave her and the link cards for "Student Voice" in her hand.
"You ready to be a celebrity for the day?" she teased.
I laughed. "Let's go. Let's take this school by storm."