From the mango tree outside, a pair of bright, mischievous eyes had been watching her all day. The squirrel, a notorious thief of the neighborhood, had a reputation for stealing anything remotely edible — from dried rice to peanuts and even chillies once. But today, it had its tiny heart set on the grandmother’s coconut.
As the old woman went inside to fetch her knife, the squirrel made its move. It scampered across the fence, leapt onto the table, and began scratching at the coconut’s shell. In seconds, it had bitten through the fibrous husk and started to drink the sweet coconut water that dripped down the cracks. The squirrel was in paradise.
Then came the sound of a wooden door creaking.
The grandmother stepped out, knife in hand, ready to split the coconut for her pudding. What she saw made her heart stop — the coconut lay half-gnawed, leaking onto the table, while the squirrel sat on top of it, licking its paws with bold satisfaction. For a moment, the old woman froze. Then, rage boiled up in her chest like hot oil.
“Yooou little demon!” she cried, waving her knife in the air. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for that coconut?”
The squirrel, startled, squeaked and darted to the edge of the table. But before it could escape, the grandmother swung the knife — not to harm, but to scare. The blade clanged against the table, and the squirrel leapt into the air, knocking over a pot of rice flour before disappearing up the mango tree.
The courtyard was a mess. Coconut water dripped onto the ground, flour dust floated like ghostly smoke, and the grandmother stood there, trembling with fury and exhaustion. Then, as the adrenaline faded, she did something unexpected — she began to cry.
Her cry wasn’t just for the ruined coconut. It was the cry of someone who had been alone for too long, who had poured her small joys into simple things — a meal, a memory, a fruit from her own tree. The neighbors heard her wailing and came running, only to find her sitting on the ground, clutching the bitten coconut to her chest.
“What happened, Aaji?” one asked, gently touching her shoulder.
“The coconut,” she sniffled. “The squirrel did it.”
For a moment, everyone stood silent. Then, slowly, laughter rippled through the group. The image of a squirrel outsmarting the fiery old grandmother was too much. Even she couldn’t help but let out a broken chuckle through her tears. The sound of laughter, light and human, filled the courtyard and softened the weight in her heart.
Later that evening, one of the neighbors brought her a fresh coconut. Together, they sat under the banyan tree, scraping its white flesh and sharing stories of the old days. The squirrel still watched from above, twitching its tail — unrepentant, perhaps, but curious. And though the grandmother grumbled every now and then, there was a twinkle in her eyes again.
From that day on, she began leaving a few scraps of rice and coconut at the base of the tree. “For the little thief,” she would say, half annoyed, half amused. Because in the end, she realized something simple and profound: even mischief has its place in the rhythm of life. The coconut may have been ruined, but her heart was lighter — and somehow, that made it all worth it.
