The sky had turned a dusky blue by the time we drove back from Chennimalai. The evening breeze carried hints of sandalwood and burnt camphor, clinging to our clothes, our hair. In the car, we sat quietly—Santhosh leaning against Amma's shoulder, Appa humming an old Ilaiyaraaja tune under his breath, and me staring out the window, watching the darkness gather gently over the familiar streets of home.
When we reached the house, no one said much. We left our footwear at the door and walked in slowly, careful not to disturb the sacred silence that seemed to have followed us from the temple. Amma carried the prasadam containers to the kitchen and placed them near the stove, her hands still holding that same poise of reverence. I lit the lamp in the pooja shelf inside the hall, gently waving the matchstick before the framed photos of deities that had, over the years, gathered like a little family.
Santhosh disappeared into his room to change, and Appa went to freshen up. I stood for a moment, barefoot on the cool tile floor, feeling the lingering vibrations of the pooja in my bones.
The dining table still had some clutter from the morning—packing tape, notepads, Amma's list, a few documents I'd forgotten to put in my folder. I started gathering things
The living room, just moments ago alive with chatter and quiet laughter, now lay still under the warm yellow light. The zippered bags rested neatly along the wall, and yet—something inside me stirred uneasily. The pooja, the packing, the prayers… everything had been done. But still, my heart whispered: double-check.
I glanced around the room. There were little things here and there—scattered receipts, half-used notepads, a lone slipper Santhosh had kicked off in his excitement. But what truly pulled my attention were the piles of clothes still to be folded or verified properly. The checklists. The system.
I quietly picked up a fresh notepad from my stationery pouch, grabbed a pen, and sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping to a new page. On top, in neat letters, I wrote: Hostel Clothing Checklist.
This time, I was going to be prepared.
I scribbled:
18 stitched kurtis (cotton and mixed)
5 pyjama sets (lightweight, soft)
7 sets of inners
15 t-shirts (for everyday wear)
6 joggers/pants
1 swimsuit (learn this time!)
4 sets of socks
2 shawls
1 thick hoodie
3 towels (labelled)
Each word I wrote carried a weight of memory. In my last life, I hadn't been this careful. The first month in the hostel had shocked me—not just the homesickness or the unspoken rules, but how unguarded I'd been.
I had lost two new t-shirts, one of my best face creams, and even a pair of inners. Things that had vanished quietly sometimes returned with a "This was lying near your cupboard,"—but not always. I remembered crying over my missing jogger pants and being told that maybe I misplaced them. People stopped believing me after a while. And worse, I stopped believing in myself.
Not this time.
This time, every single thing I was taking would be labeled. I wouldn't allow myself to break over toothpaste or pyjamas. I had grown through that fire once, and I'd rather not again.
I folded the notepad closed and placed it beside the zipped bag. Then, moving gently so as not to wake anyone, I carried the water bottle to the kitchen, filled it, and went to the bedroom to keep near the nightstand for easy access. They fell asleep quickly after walking a lot in the temple in tiredness they even forgot the water.
Then, I tiptoed back to the hall and looked at my little world asleep: Amma's saree draped carefully around her knees, her hand protectively resting near Santhosh, whose mouth was slightly open as he breathed in sleep. Appa, head tilted back, snoring softly.
I bent over and gently tugged the light blanket over Appa's feet. Then I did the same for Amma and Santhosh, whispering "Good night" as though they might hear me even in dreams.
The house was silent now, except for the ceiling fan humming above.
I headed into my room and closed the door softly behind me. The air felt still. Familiar. Mine.
And yet, soon, it wouldn't be.
I turned on the yellow desk lamp, its warm pool of light making the room feel less like goodbye and more like a letter waiting to be signed.
This was the final deep clean. The one I had been postponing because it felt so final.
I started with the bookshelf—sorting textbooks from novels, placing frequently used ones in a neat stack, and dusting off old files. In one, I found a sticker sheet and smiled to myself. I could use it to label my pouches. I pulled out a marker and labeled: "Snacks," "Toiletries," "Laundry," "Important Docs."
I moved to the cupboard next, clearing one shelf, wiping it clean, and placing the remaining at-home clothes neatly folded. I made a note of which shelf held what - so that if, during a sudden weekend call, I needed Amma to find something for me and courier it, it would be easy.
That was my real reason for doing all this. In my last life, I used to call Amma in a rush, panicked, asking, "Amma, where's my cream - the green one!" or "Did you see my black shawl?" She would search and sigh and sometimes send the wrong thing.
Now, I was creating a system. A little map of myself, left behind in my room.
I turned my attention to the final drawer. It held my childhood things—friendship bands, birthday cards, random safety pins, broken bangles, a single key I no longer remembered the use of. I left those untouched. Not everything needed to be rearranged. Some things were meant to stay as they were, waiting for the girl who would come back for them someday.
By the time I was done, it was close to midnight.
I stood in the center of my room, slightly sweaty from all the moving around, but oddly light. Clean floor. Labeled bags. Folded clothes. A quiet mind.
I started writing another list for all the things I might have missed. Tomorrow—Saturday—was my final packing and shopping day, and the day after, I would leave for the hostel. My heart felt heavy, but I pushed it aside and focused on being practical. I noted down essentials like hangers, a laundry basket, toiletries, and small organisers to keep my shelf tidy. I even added a calculator and a pair of slippers for the bathroom. This time, I didn't want to forget anything. I wanted to walk in prepared for the space, the people, and for the life ahead.
I sat down cross-legged again, leaned against the wall, and let my eyes rest for just a moment, thinking not of the goodbye ahead, but of the journey already happening.