There were just fifteen minutes before they had to leave for school. A minute later would spell disaster. It would mean getting stuck in the second wave of traffic, and Vishi knew that was the worst.

The morning had been unusually chaotic. The milk had boiled over, the dosa had become too crisp, the washing powder had finished, so the clothes were now stewing in the machine. To top it off, the toaster had forgotten when to pop. Mum always had one toast for breakfast and now she was toastless in her battle against the kitchen.

Vishi broke a bit of her dosa and scooped some chutney on to it like a chip. Her mother mopped the spilt milk with one hand, then suddenly remembered the tiffin box and abandoned the milk to wipe it down instead. Then she scooped idlis out of the steaming pot and put some into the tiffin box and the rest into a dabba. Her coffee, as usual, was chilling on the table – ignored and forgotten.

Vishi looked at the clock. Nine minutes before they absolutely had to leave.

Dad walked in. “Your coffee is getting cold, Nila,” he said, bringing the coffee to her.

“Yeah.” Mum took the cup and drank the coffee in one gulp. “I’ll wash the mugs and plates. You both should leave,” Dad said as he took the cup from Mum’s hand.

Vishi finished the last bite of her dosa and got up to give her plate to her father.

It was around the six-minute-are-left mark that the Incident occurred.

It all happened quickly.

Mum picked up the dabba of idlis and turned around. She hit the jar of coffee powder on the kitchen counter with the edge of the dabba.

The jar wobbled a bit and then toppled off the counter. It hit the ground and broke into two large and several small pieces. The wooden lid rolled back and forth on one side.

Vishi stopped in her tracks and looked at her mum. Mum stared at the jar on the floor for a whole minute. A minute they didn’t have. Then she took a deep breath and stepped over the broken jar.

“Oh no, how did that happen?” Dad said, coming over from the sink with a soapy sponge in his hand.

Vishi saw Mum move her gaze slowly to Dad.

“By mistake, Dad. It was on the edge,” Vishi replied since Mum wasn’t saying anything.

“Not to worry. I will clean it up. No biggie at all!” Dad said

“No,” Mum said. “No one touches the jar.”

“But . . . It is my turn to clean up, and it’s in the way . . .” Dad began.

“No. Do not touch the jar. I will clean it,” Mum replied.

“Don’t be silly, Nila, I can . . .”

“I said no,” Mum said, looking Dad in the eyes.

“I . . .” Dad stopped. He seemed to know the look. Vishi had seen that look before, too. It wasn’t a look you argued with. “Okay. I won’t touch it.”

“Keep your dabba in your bag, Vishi, and let’s go,” Mum said, picking up the car keys.

They were four minutes late when they left the house.

Dad picked Vishi up from school.

“How is Ma?” she asked, dumping her bag on the back seat.

“Fine,” Dad said, reversing.

“But?’ Vishi knew when her parents were being one-wordy on purpose.

“Um . . . she won’t let me clean the broken jar,” Dad said.

“It is still on the floor?”

“She won’t pick it up, and she won’t let me either,” Dad replied.

Vishi and Dad sat in silence for the rest of the drive.

When Vishi came home, Mum was writing at the dining table. The house had a faint aroma of coffee, mixed with the smell of dal. The cooker whistled. Things seemed pretty much as usual.

“Hello! How was school?” Mum said, getting up to turn off the gas.

“Great! We read an Ogden Nash poem about going to the dentist,” Vishi replied, kicking off her shoes.

“Ooh, I remember reading that one. It is funny,” Mum replied.

“Yep, I think I am going to like Grade III,” Vishi said, walking to the sink to put her tiffin box in.

“That’s so good.”

Vishi glanced at the floor. Yellow and blue pieces of the jar were nestled amongst clumps of brown powder. The wooden lid hadn’t moved.

Everything else seemed in its place in the kitchen. The counter had been wiped down, the floor had been swept, and the dustbins had been cleaned out. But the ceramic bits sat on the floor, minding their own business and being quite okay with their broken status.

Vishi glanced at Mum, who had gone back to writing. “Umm, Ma . . .?”

Mum looked up. Vishi got the sense that her mum knew what she was about to say. She saw the expression on Mum’s face change. The new expression told Vishi that this wasn’t a good time to bring up the Incident.

“Yes?” Ma said.

“Nothing.”

Vishi walked back past the broken jar and went to her room to change out of her uniform.

Vishi always thought her mum could do anything. In her eight and a half years on this planet, she had seen Mum cry a total of five times. Mum always knew how to solve problems. While her father was also always on top of things, Vishi knew that Mum was the principal of the house.

If there was a crisis, Dad and Vishi both turned to Mum to fix it. Like the time the cooker had suddenly started spouting hot ricey steam from the sides. Or the time Vishi had found a baby squirrel on their balcony. Or when they were stuck in their car because it had rained so much that the roads had flooded.

Mum came to the rescue with oven mitts to carry the spouty cooker, a baby bottle for the tiny squirrel, and a never-ending supply of car games to keep everyone happy. Vishi wasn’t sure how Mum seemed to know everything, but she somehow always did.

Excerpted with permission from Mum in a Mess, Sanjana Kapur, illustrated by Proiti Roy, Hole Books.