Joy Family

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 24: “Of Birthdays, Snowflakes, and the Girl Who Bloomed”

Five Months Later – The Rise of Joy

The days passed like warm wind through jasmine vines - quietly, fragrantly, joyously.

It had been over total 10 months since Jerusha Anne Joy had first walked into the school gates in pleated skirts and bow-braided hair. And now, in early May, the girl who once hesitated at every mirror had become the very heart of Daisy’s Elite Girls Academy.

Inside those pale green corridors, Jerusha had earned a name.

The teachers adored her for her neatness, handwriting, obedience, and soft, graceful speech. She stood first in most subjects. She organised a prayer meet during lent. In the talent show, she sang a soft Tamil melody that made the principal weep. Her marks were even printed in the monthly bulletin.

Her friends - especially Aishu, her bestie - knew her as the sweet, slightly spoiled but extremely lovable girl who wore strawberry lip balm and knew how to twist teachers around her finger with one blink of those big lashes. On Snap, she was tagged in group selfies with hearts and “Princess Joyyyy 💖💫”.

And in the restroom?

Still humiliating.

The innerwear. The skirt hikes. The way girls touched up their lip glosses and sprayed perfume. Sometimes, she just stood still and smiled, her cheeks pink.

Still Kathir inside… sometimes.

But rarely now. Very, very rarely.

Home – The House That Sang Her Name

At home, she was not Jerusha. She was “Jerukutty,” “Papa,” “Baby girl,” “My chocolate moon,” “Princess of this house,” and occasionally, “My stomach pain” when she played too many pranks.

The Joy Villa had fully transformed.

The family dining room now had floral wallpaper with her framed photos - the church photo, the New Year photo, one with Aishu, and now, her new school merit certificate framed and hung.

Every evening, she’d throw her bag onto the couch, wiggle out of her shoes, and flop across the carpet, moaning dramatically. “Ammaaa I have no lifeeee. This is child labour.”

Her mother, coming from the kitchen, would tap her on the forehead. “Then quit your school and start washing vessels, paavi.”

“Appaaa she’s beating me!”

Stephen would emerge in a suit and tie, pulling her up by the arms and twirling her around. “I’ll rescue my angel!”

Sometimes she’d pinch him. “Appa you smell like old man perfume!”

“Only old man? Appa is young la!”

“No, paavam, just old and fat,” she giggled and ran. He chased her.

Evenings ended in cuddles. She'd rest on his lap, stealing pieces of Mysore pak, while her mother brushed out her ponytail and complained she was becoming too bold.

But they wouldn’t have her any other way.

The Birthday – A Festival of Jerusha

March 28. Her birthday.

It wasn’t a celebration. It was a festival.

The house was decorated in fairy lights, rose petals, and pink-gold balloons spelling “Happy Birthday Jerusha”. There was a stage, a violinist, return gifts with her cartoon face, two photographers, and a three-tier fondant cake shaped like a Disney castle.

She wore a baby pink silk lehenga with pearl embroidery and matching jewellery. Her makeup was done by a professional artist. Her anklets shone. The platinum chain lay over the blouse like it had always belonged there.

Over 120 guests attended - family, school staff, even some church members.

People gifted her dresses, perfume, books, even a custom bracelet with the word “Joy” carved.

And the biggest surprise?

Her father bought her a brand new Mercedes-Benz S-Class.

“Appaaa are you mad?!”

“You’re the princess of this palace. What’s a palace without a chariot?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “You’ve fully spoiled her.”

“I’ll spoil her again,” he smiled.

And she ran and hugged them both, kissing them on the cheek.

More Moments – Between the Lines of Joy

The days were filled with rituals of sweetness.

She and her mother had the silliest fights. About the toothpaste cap. About whether Jerusha could wear a denim skirt instead of chudidar for church visit. About how much ice cream was too much.

They always ended with mock sulks and real hugs.

Her father took more and more photos. Sometimes, she caught him just watching her, as if trying to memorise every blink.

They started calling her “thangam” even in public.

She helped the maid decorate the prayer altar. Wrote her own Bible verses on the fridge. Cooked a meal once and burned the rasam. Laughed so hard she cried.

At night, she’d lie on the swing, writing in Jerusha’s diary.

Now… her diary.

Now – Summer, Heat… and a Wish for Snow

May began, and Chennai boiled like a kettle. Jerusha, now completely sunk into her summer casuals - hoodie dresses, soft cotton nighties, polka dot shorts with spaghetti camisoles - lay belly-down on the sofa one evening, drawing a picture.

It was a snowman.

Stephen peeked over her shoulder. “That looks cold.”

“I want to see snow, Appa,” she said wistfully. “Real snow. Like in the cartoons.”

Maria snorted from the dining room. “She’ll get sick and cough in 3 minutes.”

“Then 3 minutes is enough.”

The next morning, her father held a flight itinerary.

“Zurich, the Swiss Alps. 10 days.”

She blinked. “For what?”

“For snow, kutty.”

She screamed. “Appaaaaaaaaa!”

Packing – The Luggage of a Life Rewritten

She packed her things like a storm - earmuffs, snow boots, woollen frocks, soft sweaters, pink thermals, cartoon gloves, even a snow-themed diary.

Her passport now read Jerusha Anne Joy.

Her school ID. Her Aadhaar. Her report card. All of it did.

There was no Kathir.

There was only her.

Maria folded sweaters and whispered. “Can’t believe my girl is going abroad.”

Jerusha touched her mother’s cheek. “All because of you.”

Stephen walked in with his DSLR. “Smile, snow princess.”

She posed on the bed with a woollen hat and tongue out.

Click.

The camera clicked, and the light blinked red on the family photo frame across the room - the one that now said “Our Joy Forever”.