Internal Control in a Peanut Cone

The tiny crunch that reminded me how love and discipline can live in the same moment.

Technology may be advancing at the speed of light, but some temptations never grow old. For me, one of those is the humble paper cone of peanuts roasted in hot sand by a roadside vendor. The crunch of those peanuts somehow feels more satisfying than the sleekest snack pack from a supermarket shelf.

The real surprise, however, is not in the peanuts themselves—but in the paper they are wrapped in.

One evening, I bought a small packet. As I opened it, instead of the usual faded newspaper, I found myself staring at a page from an exam coaching guide. And right there, in bold letters at the top of the page, was a question:

“Internal Control means…?”

I laughed out loud. Imagine being ambushed by an audit textbook while trying to enjoy peanuts! The page went on to list things like verification, audit processes, vouching, internal checks—dry words for most people. But for me, they struck a deeper chord.

Because when I think of Internal Control, the first person who comes to mind isn’t an auditor. It’s my mother.

I lost her very early in life, and that’s why the memory feels sharper, almost sacred. For the brief years she was with me, she embodied Internal Control in its purest, most human form. She was the eldest among her siblings, guiding them after they lost their parents. She was a teacher in Calcutta, balancing chalk dust and home life with calm authority. She could even bring a semblance of order at our ancestral home in Thiruvarppu, where my elder cousins—who treated breakfast like a battlefield—would magically fall in line under her watch.

And then, there was her dining table philosophy. No plate was to leave the table with food wasted on it. Not even a curry leaf. Not even that stubborn, shrivelled piece of black tamarind hiding in the fish curry. Every scrap had to be respected. And she was perfectly equal-opportunity about it—whether it was me, or my towering elder cousins.

She enforced rules, yes—but somehow remained approachable, warm, and endlessly likable. That balance was her genius.

But then, cancer came. Like a thief in the night—ruthless and unyielding.

It was a time when advanced medicine was still a distant promise, when even the word cancer felt foreign and whispered. I watched as my mother transformed—from the most enchanting and dependable presence in my life into the fiercest, most unyielding woman I have ever known. She fought breast cancer. And then, a brain tumour. And still, she mothered.

She fought it the way she fought everything… with quiet strength, unwavering resolve, and dignity that never cracked. Even in pain, she didn’t let me see her crumble. She even kept her “internal control” intact when it came to emotions—never letting them drown her clarity.

One day, she called me quietly into her room. I was barely ten. She hugged me, held me close, and then—calmly, almost gently, as though she were teaching me another one of life’s lessons—she said:
“I am going to die soon. After I am gone, there will be another mother in my place. She will love you. And you must love her and obey her, just as you have loved me.”

I didn’t realize it then, but that moment revealed the deepest layer of her strength. To speak of her own departure, to prepare her only son for a future without her—and to do it without breaking down—was perhaps her greatest act of composure. It was her final, unshakable expression of internal control.

And when the end came, I could almost hear her voice in my heart:

“You control your life, but don’t forget your destiny.”
“It’s time to say goodbye. I know it will make you cry.”
“You make your destiny. I know you’ll find the way.”

Outside, the sun was bright. It didn’t seem fair. The world kept moving, unchanged, unaware of what it had lost.

But she was right. Life went on.

I walked my path. I stumbled. I failed. I grew. And through all these years, I have felt the absence of that firm hand—that silent guardian who once corrected me when I needed it most.

So yes, Internal Control does mean something. For most people, it’s about ledgers, audits, and checklists. But for me, it will never just be an audit term. It will always mean the quiet power of a woman who could run a household, guide her siblings, tame breakfast-time rebels in Thiruvarppu, and still find the calmness to tell her ten-year-old son that life would go on without her.

That was her gift—discipline without coldness, clarity without cruelty, control without ever making it feel like control.

And perhaps that’s the gift (or the mischief) of writing a memoir: suddenly, even a simple peanut cone can unravel me. Because hidden inside its crackle are the quiet, almost invisible lessons I might once have ignored—reminders that love, when paired with composure and courage, has more staying power than anything else we leave behind.

In the end, I suppose my mother was the original auditor of my life—making sure nothing was wasted, not even a curry leaf… and certainly not a lesson.

I finished the peanuts long ago. The lessons, though, I’m still chewing on. Ten rupees well spent.