After waving goodbye to the kind staff at school, we climbed back into the car, letting the air conditioning cool our flushed faces. The next stop on our checklist was the tailor shop.
It was a small, slightly cluttered space tucked between an old hardware store and a medical shop. The wooden shelves were piled high with folded clothes, finished and half-stitched garments, and colorful spools of thread. The smell of fabric starch and ironing lingered in the air. As soon as we entered, Tailor Uncle looked up from his sewing machine and smiled warmly.
"Nila ma, vandhutiya?" (Nila dear, you've come?)
I grinned and nodded. "Yes, Uncle. Came to collect all the clothes."
He brought out the stack of kurtas, night suits, and other hostel-ready wear we had designed just a few days ago. Everything was neatly pressed and packed, each kurta folded with care, the customized necklines and little name-tag patches stitched just as we had planned.
"You've grown into such a thoughtful girl," he said with genuine affection. "This is the first time someone your age has come up with all these practical designs."
I blushed a little. "Just wanted to make sure I don't lose anything in the hostel."
Then, from behind his table, he pulled out a small transparent pouch. Inside, I found rectangular cloth labels—scraps from my own kurtas, stitched along the sides to look like mini tags. Along with that, he had added a few needles, colored threads, extra buttons, and a small pair of scissors.
"This is for you," he said. "An emergency sewing kit. Consider it a gift for your new beginnings."
I was genuinely touched. "Thank you, Uncle! I almost forgot how useful this would be."
"Hostel la idhellam thevai padum," he said, adjusting his glasses. ("In the hostel, these little things will come in handy.")
I promised to return during the winter holidays to get new clothes stitched and said my goodbyes, clutching the sewing kit with care as though it were a treasure.
Back in the car, we headed to the weekly farmers market. It was bustling with activity as always—bright tarpaulin sheets shading fresh vegetables, baskets of greens stacked high, and the earthy smell of coriander and mint wafting through the air.
Appa and Amma split up to shop efficiently. While they negotiated prices for tomatoes and onions, Santhosh and I wandered off with a few ten-rupee notes Amma had handed us.
We found a pani puri stall at the corner. The vendor popped the puris one by one into a bowl, expertly filling each with spicy potato mix and tangy tamarind water. Santhosh had his first bite, and his eyes widened.
"Spicy! But sooo good!" he said, hopping a little as the spice hit his tongue.
We laughed and took turns, wiping our noses and eyes with tissues after every round. After that, we spotted a samosa stall and packed a couple to take home. Then, at another cart, we found hot and crispy cauliflower 65—deep-fried, red, and fragrant with curry leaves.
"This will be perfect with dinner," I said, carefully wrapping it to keep the crispiness intact.
Once Appa and Amma were done, we all made our way back home. The sun had dipped low, and the air had that mellow golden hue that only a summer evening could offer.
Back home, we all changed into casual clothes and started prepping for dinner. Amma whipped up her famous tomato chutney—tangy, spicy, and slightly sweet—and Appa made dosa batter dance on the hot tawa like a seasoned chef. Santhosh laid out the plates while I cut up onions and chilies for a quick side salad.
The cauliflower 65 was a hit. The spicy crunch paired with the soft, warm dosas was pure comfort food.
After dinner, no one rushed to their rooms. There was a quiet but shared understanding—another task awaited us. We all slowly moved to the living room, and before long, a pile of freshly laundered clothes sat in the center like a soft mountain of readiness.
"Okay," Amma clapped her hands lightly, her voice still warm from the comfort of food. "Let's do one final check."
Santhosh flopped onto the floor, dramatically throwing his arms back. "Why so many checks! Like exam revision."
Appa chuckled as he walked in, a towel in hand from washing the dinner plates. "Better safe than sorry, thambi."(younger brother)
I picked up the bundle from the tailor shop and gently placed it near the laundry pile. Each kurta, night suit, and set of inners was carefully folded, and the name-tag cloth patches were stitched neatly into the inner hems. Then, I dashed to my room and returned with my electronics—my new study lamp, the alarm clock I had chosen so carefully, and my power bank, charger, and a pair of wired earphones. I also brought the pencil box packed with my new stationery—pens, pencils, markers, sticky notes—and a small folder where I'd placed empty exam pads and ruled notebooks.
"Here's everything I got on the day out with Appa," I said, placing them down beside the clothes.
Amma nodded approvingly. "Very good. Now go bring all the homemade stuff too, ma. The rice mixes and snacks."
I jogged to the kitchen and came back balancing a basket filled with neatly labeled containers—lemon rice mix, puliyodharai podi, paruppu podi, and some ghee-packed sweets in small stainless steel dabbas. Amma took them from me and started stacking them in a corner.
Appa settled onto the couch, stretching a little. Amma grabbed her notepad and pen, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the pen tucked behind her ear like a teacher on correction duty.
"Okay," she said. "Let's check off the list again."
She began reading it out loud, and as she did, she pointed to each pile—tops, nightwear, towel sets, innerwear, stationery, electronics, toiletries. She paused for a second, then turned to Appa.
"Medicine kit, you haven't made it yet."
Appa sighed, "I know, I know. I'll do it tomorrow. We'll pack cotton, Dettol, Band-Aid, cold tablets, fever tablets... and that balm for stomach pain you always keep in your handbag."
"And mosquito cream," Amma added sharply, giving him a pointed look.
I grinned and stretched out beside Santhosh, who was now organizing my sketch pens by color out of pure boredom. "I'll prepare a document folder too," I said. "For my TC and stuff. I've kept the original birth certificate and community certificate. Need to take photocopies."
"Don't forget your Aadhaar and vaccination records," Amma reminded, looking at me over her glasses.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll add those too. Remind me to take extra passport size photos tomorrow. I need them for hostel registration and library cards."
Appa leaned forward. "You still have that photo studio's receipt? For reprints?"
"Yup," I said, flipping open my pencil pouch and pulling it out. "They said it'll be ready by 11 a.m. tomorrow."
Santhosh piped up, "What about your sewing kit, Akka? You forgot it."
I smiled. "That's in my bag already. Tailor Uncle gave it to me today as a gift."
Amma paused writing and looked up at me with a rare softness. "You've become so responsible, Nila."
I blinked. I wasn't used to being praised so directly. "I'm just... trying to make it easy. For all of us."
We sat there for a while longer, each of us tucked in our own corners of the living room, surrounded by all the objects that made up my transition from home to hostel. It wasn't just clothes and chargers—it was Amma's handwritten list, Appa's upcoming medicine kit, and Santhosh's scattered sketch pens. Every item felt like a hug I was going to carry with me.