The Great Samosa Heist

It started on a normal Friday evening. A peaceful day. Sun calm. Breeze light. I was home alone, preparing for what I call my weekly emotional therapy session — eating fresh hot samosas with zero guilt and zero witnesses.

I ordered 8 samosas.

Not 6. Not 7. Eight.

Because that number is perfect. Two for the present moment. Two for the future. Two for after regret. And two for the time after regret of regret.

When the delivery guy arrived, I felt the universe blessing me. The smell hit my soul before the bag even reached my hands. This wasn’t food. This was childhood memories, school canteen nostalgia, family tea-time, monsoon season happiness compressed into a triangle geometry miracle.

I put the samosas on the table and went to wash my hands for exactly 32 seconds like a responsible civilized human.

When I came back...

ONE SAMOSA WAS MISSING.

The bag was slightly tilted. The plate was slightly unbalanced. And the universe suddenly felt darker.

I froze. I blinked. I checked again. No, this wasn’t imagination. One was gone. Just gone. Evaporated like it had quantum tunneled into another dimension.

My first suspicion: My brother.

He is the type of person who steals fries one piece at a time, saying “just taste testing.” But he wasn’t home. I even called him:

“Did you come home? Did you take a samosa?”

He laughed for two minutes straight. “Bro, even if I took one, what are you gonna do? File missing complaint in CNN?”

Not helpful.

I then checked the door. Still locked. Windows locked too. So how did one samosa escape?

Next suspicion: A ghost.

Listen… I’m not saying ghosts eat fried snacks… but if I was a ghost stuck between worlds, samosa is exactly the type of thing I’d break the rules of existence for.

Then suspicion three: My cat, Simba.

Simba is fluffy, innocent-looking and extremely criminal minded. This creature once stole my mom’s chicken and then pretended to yawn like nothing happened.

So I conducted an investigation.

I sat Simba across from me like CID interrogation.

“Did you take it?”

Simba slow-blinked at me like he was silently saying, “Even if I did… prove it, human.”

I checked his whiskers for crumbs. I checked the floor. Nothing.

This was not normal theft. This was pro-level heist.

So I did what any normal human would do.

I created a WhatsApp group titled:

“Operation Samosa Recovery”

I added my cousins. My brother. My neighbor. Even the uncle upstairs who complains about noise since 2018. We began analyzing angles, last seen positions, psychological profiles, everything.

Someone suggested the delivery guy took one from the bag before handing it over.

Someone else suggested parallel universe timeline shift.

One cousin said maybe the samosa had a personal dream of freedom.

Someone seriously wrote:

> “Samosa is triangle Illuminati symbol. This is a message.”

After 45 minutes of deep professional samosa forensics, my mom came home.

And in one sentence, the entire case collapsed.

“Oh I took one before leaving again, it smelled good.”

… she said this casually. Like she didn’t just break my entire soul and cause an international samosa drama.

At this exact moment I realized:
Indian / Desi mothers are the greatest thieves in history. They can steal, snack, hide, and act like nothing happened with Oscar-level performance.

I told the group:

Case closed.

But the group said “No. No no no.” We have emotionally invested now. We need compensation. We need justice.

My cousin demanded: At least buy gulab jamun for emotional trauma.

The upstairs uncle suggested we make a Netflix documentary.

My brother said he wants 3 extra samosas next time because this trauma is generational.

Mom laughed. Instead of apology she said:

“You should thank me. If I didn’t take one, you would overeat.”

This is mother logic. The kind of logic that cannot be defeated. It is not based on physics. It is based on mom universe rules. Above the constitution. Above democracy. Above UN law.

So what did I learn?

Sometimes the most harmless samosa can start a riot-level investigation.
Sometimes we over-detective life.
Sometimes the mystery is not aliens. Not invisibility. Not ghosts.

Sometimes it’s just your own mother casually stealing snacks like a trained ninja.

And weirdly…

That made it even funnier.

Because what is life without these small silly moments?
What is family without snack theft history?
What is humor without real ridiculous chaos?

The Great Samosa Heist taught me this:

Happiness is not perfect moments. Happiness is stupid little stories you keep laughing at forever.

Next Friday I will again order samosas.

But this time… I’ll order 9.

One for emotional insurance.