Samosas, Collaboration, and the Art of Letting Go

The Magic of "Work with me"....

It was a Tuesday morning, and my kitchen was alive with the hum of impending chaos. P’s school had a Thanksgiving lunch planned for the week, and I, in an unusual surge of culinary ambition, had baked a batch of cocktail samosas. Perfectly crispy, golden, and smugly delightful, these little triangles of joy were my pièce de résistance. As I carefully arranged them in an aluminum tray, mentally preparing my acceptance speech for "Best Mom Ever," P walked in with her backpack slung over one shoulder and a revolutionary idea.

“Amma, can we put them in a smaller box? I can fit that in my backpack,” she said, her tone casual but her intention clear: my grand presentation tray was about to be dethroned.

Naturally, the battle lines were drawn. I, the seasoned mother with years of samosa experience, knew better. “Carrying the tray will ensure they’re intact,” I began, launching into a persuasive monologue about samosa preservation and aesthetic appeal. But before I could gain momentum, P tilted her head, looked me squarely in the eye, and said with the calm authority of a seasoned negotiator, “Work with me, Amma, please?”

And just like that, she won. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the disarming sincerity in her voice. Her idea wasn’t bad—just different. Begrudgingly, I transferred the samosas into her preferred box, marveling at how effortlessly she had dismantled my resistance.

That moment, so ordinary on the surface, sent me spiraling back through time to my childhood. Flashback to elementary school: My dad, in a rare display of academic patience, offered to help me with homework. However, his methods didn’t align with those of my teacher, and I—possessed by the audacity of youth—pointed this out. “You’re not listening to me!” he thundered, thoroughly exasperated. It was the first and last time he ventured into my academic world. From then on, I fought the battles of long division and fractions solo.

Then came middle school, and with it, the terrifying reign of Mrs. Math. This woman was a one-woman army of rigidity. Her motto? “My way or the wrong way.” Suggesting an alternative solution to a math problem was tantamount to committing a felony. If you dared to question her methods, you earned the dreaded label of “over-smart”—a term reserved for those foolish enough to think outside the box. It didn’t matter if your answer was correct; if it wasn’t her way, it wasn’t valid.

At home, my experiments with creativity didn’t fare much better. Take chores, for instance. My dad and I struck a deal: if I washed his car weekly, I’d earn Rs.50 a month—a fortune I promptly spent on Tinkle comics and Cadbury Dairy Milk. But my washing technique? Scrutinized to death. If I so much as deviated from his prescribed method, my mom would swoop in with the rhetorical gem: “Don’t you have any common sense?”

This was the culture I grew up in. Respecting elders meant obedience, not collaboration. You didn’t question authority; you nodded, smiled, and followed orders, even if they made no sense. “Why?” was a dangerous word, and “What if—” was an invitation to trouble. Creativity and autonomy were unwelcome guests at the table.

Fast forward to today, and here I am, trying to unlearn decades of conditioning, one thread at a time. “Work with me” wasn’t a phrase I grew up hearing. It was always “Do it my way, or else.” While I survived that world, I often wondered how much more I could have thrived if collaboration, not compliance, had been the norm.

Watching P interact with the world has been eye-opening. She uses “Work with me” like a magic spell—convincing friends to share ideas, taming our opinionated dog Loki during bath time, and now, getting her stubborn mother to compromise. Every time she says it, it’s a gentle reminder that collaboration doesn’t undermine authority; it enhances it. And that Tuesday morning, her words hit me like a lightning bolt.

Why had it taken me this long to realize the beauty of flexibility? Of stepping back and saying, “Sure, let’s try it your way”? It wasn’t just about the samosas. It was about embracing the possibility that someone else’s approach might not only work—but might even be better.

“Work with me.” Three small words, yet they carry the weight of transformation. They’re an invitation to listen, to collaborate, to put aside ego and pride in favor of shared success. They remind us that being right isn’t the goal; getting it done is.

So here I am, clutching my box of samosas, armed with an epiphany wrapped in flaky pastry: Life isn’t about insisting on your way every time. It’s about learning to work together, to adapt, and yes, sometimes, to just put the samosas in the damn box.

Are you ready to work with each other? I am. Now, pass the chutney—collaboration tastes better with a little spice.