It was 1996, in a small middle class home inside a quiet Tamil Nadu street, lived a cheerful 5 year old boy named Raja. Raja was Amma’s little soldier. Every day, he would go to the nearby annachi kadai, a yellow cloth bag in one hand and a shopping list in the other, Tapping his bare feet in the warm road, mumbling “Onion… tomato… paruppu… soap…” The old shopkeeper smiled whenever Raja arrived. “Inaiku ena venum?” “Idhaanga Amma kudutha list,” Raja would reply, proudly. The items were packed in newspaper, weighed on a rusty weighing machine And then came Raja’s favorite part, the baaki kasu — the leftover change. Sometimes it was 50 paise. Sometimes, just 25 Paise. But Raja knew exactly what he wanted. Inside a glass jar on the counter sat his dream: a small, shiny wrapped chocolate, Not fancy but famous. Just one tiny chocolate for 25 paise. He would point shyly and say, “Annachi… baaki kasuku… aasai chocolate kudunga…” The shopkeeper Smile and pull out one toffee and drop it into his Palm. Raja would finish it before reaching home, before Amma noticed or so he thought. But of course, Amma always knows everything. One day, after finishing the list, Raja had 1 rupee left. He bought four chocolates. At home, after placing the groceries carefully on the kitchen floor, he pulled out one chocolate and held it out. “For you, Amma!” She looked at him, a little surprised. “For me” Raja nodded proudly. “I saved.” Amma didn’t say much. She just smiled softly, her tired eyes glowing as she unwrapped the tiny chocolate and took the smallest bite. “En Rajaa, Valanthuttan.” (Pinching his cheek) Years later…. Raja is not that little 5-year-old anymore. He is now a father, with a house of his own, a steady job, and a daughter named Maya, who has his eyes and his sweet tooth. One lazy Sunday morning, Raja sat on the verandah, sipping filter coffee. Maya climbed into his lap, with one of the coins from the old glass jar on the shelf. “Appa, why do you always keep these old coins?” she asked. Raja smiled. “They are from when I was your age.” “You were a kid?” she asked dramatically. He laughed. “Yes, even your Appa was small once. I used to buy groceries for my Amma. She would send me to the annachi kadai with a bag and exact change. But sometimes…” he leaned and whispered — “there would be baaki kasu left.” Maya’s eyes lit up. “And then you bought chocolate?” He nodded with a smile. “One tiny chocolate. Just 25 paise. I would hold it tight all the way home. I’d eat it slowly, before Amma saw…” “Did she ever find out?” Raja’s smile softened. “Of course she did. Amma always knew everything. One day, I bought four chocolates and gave her one. She didn’t say much, just smiled and said… ‘“En rajaa, valanthutaan”, He pinched Maya’s cheek. He paused for a moment, eyes glancing toward a framed photo of his mother on the wall with her warm smile in the frame. “She never bought things for herself,” he continued, voice quieter now. “But the day I gave her that tiny chocolate… I saw her eyes shine. That moment… it stayed with me forever” Maya leaned her head against his chest. “Appa, when I buy chocolate with baaki kasu… I will give you one.” Raja hugged her close. “That’s all I need.” That weekend, Maya stood proudly at the store counter with her shopping list. When the bill was done, with the remaining change, Maya turned to the cashier and said: “Uncle… baaki kasuku… aasai chocolate kudunga.” Raja stood behind her, watching and in that moment, he could almost feel Amma standing beside him, her gentle hand on his shoulder, her smile in his daughter’s voice. The chocolate was small. But the memory? Timeless. Life is nothing but those little moments that stay with you forever. Cherish them — whenever and however you can. Hereby, Gowtham