I woke up to the sound of the ceiling fan ticking gently and sunlight sneaking in through the window, brushing across my bedsheet like a promise. The weight of the day settled in even before my feet touched the floor—today was the final day. My final packing and shopping day before leaving for the hostel.
Amma was already up, humming to herself while boiling water in the kitchen. The smell of filter coffee drifted in, calming my nerves a little. Appa was reading the paper, and Santhosh sat at the table, kicking his legs under the chair while munching on a banana.
"Today, we need to finish everything," I said, folding up my blanket and joining Amma in the kitchen.
"We'll manage," she replied with a smile. "I've already noted down the grocery and medical store list. What about yours?"
I handed her my scribbled pages. "Everything from hangers to highlighters. And I've made a separate list for snacks I want to take."
She nodded approvingly. "Good. Let's finish breakfast first."
By 10 a.m., we were in the car. Our first stop was the nearby supermarket. I pushed the cart while Amma picked up a laundry basket, a multipack of clothes hangers, detergent bars, and bathroom slippers. I found a soft zip-up blanket—navy blue with tiny white stars—and hugged it to my chest.
"Can I take this?" I asked.
"It's a bit pricey…"
"I'll use it for all three years," I pleaded. "And it's light."
She smiled and nodded. "Okay. Add it."
Santhosh ran to me with a basket of toiletries—shampoo sachets, small soaps, talcum powder, a toothbrush cover, a comb, and scrunchies.
"You forgot these," he grinned.
We moved next to the stationer's. I picked up clear folders for documents, a diary for hostel notes, pastel sticky notes, and an extra pen pouch. Nothing is wrong with extra stationery. You never know where your pens will go in the hostel; they will be borrowed and forgotten. I got different types of organizer boxes. I don't want my place to be messy, so that if anything goes missing, I can notice it easily.
At the medical store, Appa picked up items for a small medicine kit: crocin, balm, band-aids, cough syrup, a thermometer, ORS packets, and a small antiseptic bottle. Amma added sanitary pads and a small pouch for everything.
After lunch, we all gathered in my room. The bed was a mountain of things—clothes folded in neat piles, packets of stationery, a growing pile of snacks, and half-zipped suitcases.
I laid out my checklists again. "Eighteen kuthis—check. Seven t-shirts—check. Six joggers—check. Pyjama sets, inners, socks, towel, bedspread—check. Footwear?"
"Two pairs—one for inside hostel, one for going out," Amma said.
"Add slippers for the bathroom," Appa reminded.
"Already packed," I smiled.
One by one, I arranged everything in packing cubes. I rolled the t-shirts and stacked them next to my kurtis. Underthings were put into a small zippered organizer. The snacks—murrukku, thattai, mixture, and a couple of chocolate bars—went into a separate section. The puliyodarai mix Amma made last evening was packed carefully into an airtight container, along with a small packet of fried papad.
"Don't forget the sewing kit from tailor uncle," Santhosh called out.
I placed it on top, tucking it beside the documents file. I had photocopied my birth certificate, Aadhaar, community certificate, and school documents the previous evening. I included passport-size photos in a labelled pouch.
As the sun began to set, I sat by the window with a mug of Horlicks, watching Amma and Appa talk quietly in the hall. Santhosh had dozed off on the sofa, hugging my laundry basket.
I smiled to myself.
There was a time in my past life when I had arrived at the hostel with only half of these things. No clip-on lamp. No snacks. No sewing kit. I had borrowed from others, and people had taken from me without asking. I had cried alone in the washroom when my favourite nightdress disappeared and people thought I was making it up. This time, I was ready.
I looked at my labelled zip-locks, fabric pouches with my name stitched onto them, and everything folded and counted. Even Amma's note, "Be brave, be kind," was kept safely between my diary pages.
Appa walked into the room with a phone charger in hand.
"You forgot this," he said.
I grinned. "That would've been a disaster."
"You've really grown up, Kanna," he said, his voice softer than usual.
"I don't feel grown up, Appa. I just feel… prepared."
He nodded, eyes warm. "Sometimes that's enough."
I smiled back and gently set the charger on top of my packed electronics pouch. My suitcase stood zipped in the corner, proud and prepared, like a soldier ready for tomorrow's mission.
As if on cue, Amma called from the living room, "Movie time! Come fast before Appa sleeps off!"
I laughed, stretched a bit, and walked out to find Santhosh already curled up on the floor mat with two pillows, one under his head and one hugged to his chest. The coffee table had been pushed aside, the extra mattresses brought out, and the lights were dimmed except for the yellow nightlamp in the corner.
"Today no fight over the remote," Amma warned, sitting down cross-legged with her plate of sliced apples. "Let's watch something nice and simple."
Appa held up the remote. "Old Rajinikanth movie?"
"Too long!" I protested, slipping in between Amma and Santhosh. "Something light-hearted. No crying and no songs that make Amma emotional."
We settled on a feel-good comedy from the early 2000s. One of those movies that didn't demand too much thought but felt like a warm hug. As the opening credits rolled in with peppy music, Amma reached over and tucked the blanket properly around Santhosh.
Halfway through the film, I leaned back and looked at all of them. This wasn't a special festival or occasion. There was no fancy dinner or big celebration. But somehow, this moment felt like gold.
In between the laughter and commentary from Appa about the actor's walking style, I cleared my throat. "Tomorrow… I want us to leave early. Around 5 or 5:30 in the morning."
"Hmm," Appa nodded, pausing the movie for a second. "Why so early?"
"It's a five-hour drive. If we leave by sunrise, we can reach by 10:30 a.m. at least," I explained, already half planning the route in my mind. "If the hostel staff allows, I can finish check-in before lunch."
Amma looked thoughtful. "That makes sense. Better to settle everything calmly. No rush."
I added, "After that, we can go out for lunch somewhere nearby. One last lunch before I officially become a hostel kid."
Santhosh leaned on my shoulder, his voice muffled, "Can I come too?"
"Of course," Appa said quickly. "All four of us go, all four of us come back."
I continued, "If I say bye around 3 p.m., you'll be able to get back home before 8. It'll still be daylight when you reach."
"Sounds perfect," Appa nodded and resumed the movie.
It was such a simple discussion, but for me, it held the weight of everything I'd been preparing for. In my past life, I had left in a rush—scattered, nervous, half-prepared. This time, I was choosing how my beginning would look.
As the movie played on, Santhosh slowly drifted into sleep, his breathing soft and steady. Amma leaned on Appa's shoulder, and I sat watching the last half hour of the film, not really paying attention to the story anymore.
When it ended, no one moved immediately. The soft hum of the end credits filled the room as we all sat there, caught in the in-between of endings and beginnings.
Finally, Amma stood up and whispered, "Let's just sleep here tonight."
Appa agreed, spreading out another mattress. "Why not? Last night all of us under one roof—might as well make it a memory."
We turned off the TV, laid out the blankets, and made a little nest of pillows and mattresses across the living room floor. I grabbed my new navy blue star-printed blanket and pulled it over me and Santhosh. Amma turned off the last light, and the room slipped into a calm silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the fan.
I stared up at the ceiling, listening to my family breathe in sleep around me. Tomorrow, everything would change. But tonight—just for tonight—we were here. Together. Tucked under shared warmth, between laughter and dreams, with a whole future waiting patiently on the other side of dawn