The Best Breakfast in the World
The scent reached him first.
It crept in through the crack under the door, soft and warm—spices, something toasty, something sweet. Not burning. Not sour. Nothing like Aunt Petunia’s kitchen. This smell made his belly twist in a way he didn’t understand—like maybe something good might happen. Like hope.
Hari’s eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He was tucked beneath a blanket thick as a cloud, far too nice for someone like him. The sheets smelled like lavender and cardamom. The room—his room—was enormous. There were paper lanterns above the bed, books stacked in tidy piles, and a little window seat with pillows shaped like elephants.
He had fallen asleep in the silk pyjamas they gave him last night. Silk. He hadn’t known people wore things like that to sleep. He was scared to wrinkle them. Scared to breathe too loud. Scared this dream would vanish.
The door creaked open.
He flinched—automatically—and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
Two girls peeked in, their voices a giggle and a whisper.
“He’s still so little,” one said.
“He looks like a startled kitten,” said the other.
Hari sat up slowly, blinking at them. The twin girls wore matching kurtas in swirling jewel tones, like the ones he remembered from fairy tale books. Their long braids swished when they moved. They looked like they belonged in a story.
“I’m Parvati,” said the first girl. “And this is Padma. You remember us, right?”
He nodded uncertainly.
Padma smiled gently. “We’re your big sisters now.”
“Sisters?” His voice came out hoarse.
“Yup!” said Parvati. “You’re our baby brother.”
He shrank a little at that, unsure what to say. He wasn’t used to being anything but the freak or the burden.
“Are you really magic?” Parvati asked, eyes wide.
“I… I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” said Padma, stepping closer. “We are too. And Mum says we’ll teach you everything. Come on—breakfast!”
Hari’s stomach clenched. “I—I can help. I can—set the table or wash the dishes—”
Both girls blinked.
“You’re not here to do chores,” Padma said, confused.
“But I—” he started, panicked, “I can do it fast. I won’t break anything. I promise I won’t be trouble—”
“Oh,” whispered Parvati, stepping forward. “Oh, baby bhaiya, no. You don’t have to earn breakfast.”
Padma reached for his hand, slow and careful. “You’re safe here, Hari.”
“Promise?” he asked so small it was barely a sound.
“Pakka vaada,” said Parvati solemnly. “Unbreakable promise.”
---
The dining room glowed with golden morning light.
Cushions circled a low table, and atop it was a spread of food Hari had never even dreamed of: aloo paratha, crispy and steaming; idli, cloudlike and warm; bright chutneys, glittering halwa, a tower of toasted paav.
He froze in the doorway.
Mira looked up from the stove and smiled. “Come in, beta.”
He hesitated. “That means…?”
“It means ‘child.’ My child,” she said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “Come sit. You are ours now.”
Hari stepped in slowly, knees tight with tension. The girls pulled him down between them and began to pile food onto his plate before he could blink.
He looked down, overwhelmed.
“No one’s ever let me eat first,” he whispered.
“Good thing we’re not ‘no one,’” Padma said, handing him a spoonful of halwa. “We’re your family.”
As he took a cautious bite, something inside him cracked open.
Warmth spilled through his chest. Butter, cardamom, sugar, and salt. His eyes stung—but no one mocked him when he wiped them.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he said, a little awed.
Mira smiled as she poured him a small cup of golden-brown tea. “Chai,” she said. “Spiced tea. A very important part of being Indian.”
Parvati leaned in. “We talked about your name.”
Hari stiffened. “My name?”
Padma nodded. “Mum says ‘Harry’ is a British nickname, right? But we thought… maybe you’d like to know what your name is in Hindi.”
Mira smiled gently. “Hari. It means one who takes away pain. It’s also another name for Vishnu, the protector.”
Hari blinked. “It… it means something?”
“Of course it does,” Mira said. “Names are power. And you have so much of it, little one.”
He clutched the cup tighter in his small hands. “I used to think my name was Freak.”
Everyone at the table stilled.
“Not anymore,” said Mira, her voice like thunder and honey. “You are Hari. Our son. Our lion. Our light.”
Padma nudged him with her shoulder. “You like it?”
He nodded slowly. “It’s mine.”
Parvati beamed. “Hari the Hero.”
“Hari the Hungry,” added Padma, pointing at his cleared plate.
He laughed—a little hiccup of sound he hadn’t made in years.
For the first time in his life, Hari felt full. Not just in his belly, but in his heart.
And when Mira pressed a second helping into his hands and said, “Eat, beta,” he didn’t flinch.
He ate.