The alarm blared at 5 a.m., but honestly, I was already half-awake, mind buzzing with the day's importance. I swung my legs off the bed, feeling the early morning chill nip at my ankles. Around me, the house was alive with the familiar chaos of hurried packing and last-minute checks. Amma was busy in the kitchen, brewing coffee and packing some snacks for the journey. Appa was already dressed, neatly folding a shawl into the car's backseat. Santhosh was half-dressed, still yawning and rubbing his eyes as he hunted for his sneakers.
I took a quick bath, letting the cold water jolt me into full awareness, and changed into my chosen outfit for the day: a simple navy blue t-shirt, light blue jeans, and a clean pair of white sneakers. Technically, western clothes weren't allowed inside my new school—but since today was just the check-in day, and I was "not supposed to know" the rule yet, I decided I might as well step into this new life with a little style. It felt like a small rebellion, a reminder that I was still me.
I double-checked my essentials—basic phone? Check. Wallet? Check. ID? Check. Then I helped Appa and Santhosh load my luggage into the car. The large blue trolley, filled with carefully packed clothes and hostel supplies, and a small carton box that held my laundry bag, toiletries, hangers, and organizers. It wasn't much, but it felt heavy, both physically and emotionally.
By 5:30 a.m., we were ready.
Before hitting the road, we drove to our neighborhood temple for a quick prayer. The early morning mist still lingered around the temple entrance, making the place look ethereal. The priest was finishing the first aarti of the day. We lit a small lamp, offered flowers, and prayed silently.
Amma broke a coconut at the temple steps, the water splashing at our feet, a sign of good beginnings. Appa placed a fresh lemon under the front wheel of the car and gently moved the vehicle forward, crushing it—a ritual for safe travels. Santhosh clapped excitedly, finding the whole thing fascinating.
I silently prayed too, not just for a safe journey, but for strength, patience, and the courage to make the most out of this new beginning.
And just like that, our journey began.
Surprisingly, when we got into the car, Santhosh didn't fight to sit in the front seat like he usually would. Every trip we took, it was a never-ending debate—who would call shotgun first, who would claim the front seat beside Appa. It had almost become a tradition: loud arguing, Amma scolding, Appa telling us both to sit wherever we wanted if we didn't stop fighting.
But today, without a word, Santhosh simply climbed into the back seat next to me, hugging his small backpack. He even buckled his seatbelt quietly. I turned to look at him, slightly surprised. He just smiled a little, almost shyly, and leaned his head on my shoulder for a second before pretending he was busy with his toy car. My heart softened. Maybe he was feeling the change, too. Maybe, in his own way, he knew this trip was different.
We drove on, the sun still rising, bathing the highway in gold. Appa, as usual, drove confidently at 120 to 140 kilometers per hour on the highway—not rashly, but smoothly. I've always loved the way he drives, like the car and the road listen to him. It made every trip feel like an adventure. We usually stopped once or twice for a break on such trips, and today was no different.
Around Salem, we pulled into a cozy roadside restaurant for breakfast. It was a typical South Indian place—brightly colored walls, the smell of filter coffee hanging in the air, servers rushing around with plates of idlis and dosas. We ate hot ghee dosa and vada, and Santhosh made a mess with his sambar as usual. I tucked into my meal, knowing that simple things like this—family breakfasts on the road—would soon become rare for me.
Back on the highway, the landscape blurred past us. Coconut trees, patches of farmland, and the occasional stretch of rocky hills. I sat back, feeling the steady hum of the car beneath me, and decided to ask something that had been on my mind.
"Appa," I said, turning slightly in my seat, "can you tell me about our property and business? Like, what assets do we have, and what loans are there?"
Amma raised her eyebrows slightly but smiled. Appa laughed, a full, hearty laugh that filled the car. "Look at this girl. Not even left home properly, already worrying about assets and loans!" he teased.
But he answered seriously, too, because he knew I was asking out of genuine interest. "Our house," he began, "is our own property. Right now, the market value would be around one crore. But we still have a housing loan on it. It'll take a few more years to clear."
He counted on his fingers. "We have two cars—both under loan, too. Office-wise, we have two companies: Nila Tex, where I'm the MD, and Santhosh Tex, where Amma is the MD."
I smiled at that. I always found it funny that our names were attached to businesses when we were just kids.
"One office building is on our own land, but again, there's a loan for the construction. The other office is rented. And," he added, "we have one land in Tuticorin. No buildings yet, just land."
Amma leaned back against her seat. "I used to go to the office every day, you know. Before we moved into our new house. After the shift, it's a long drive—forty minutes each way. That's why I stopped."
"But she still manages from home," Appa said proudly. "She knows everything happening."
I listened carefully, nodding. In my last life, I remembered this time being the beginning of small financial tensions. Nothing visible yet—but two years down the line, it would grow. By 2022, it would become really serious. Our house had nearly gone into auction at one point.
I didn't want to scare them, but I couldn't stay quiet either. I turned to Amma and said carefully, "Maybe, once or twice a week, you should start visiting the office again, Amma. Even if it's tiring. Just to keep an eye."
Amma looked surprised for a second, but then she smiled. "Why? You think I'll become lazy otherwise?" she teased.
"No," I said honestly, "I just feel... it'll be safer if both of you are directly involved."
Appa chuckled. "First trip alone, and already she's advising us like an old lady."
Amma laughed too. "It's supposed to be us giving you lectures today, Nila. Not the other way around."
Santhosh, not wanting to be left out, piped up, "Nila Akka, are you going to boss everyone in the hostel too?"
I laughed and ruffled his hair. "Maybe. Someone needs to."
I turned a little more serious then. "And you-you better study well, okay? Don't waste time. And if anyone bullies you at school, tell Amma or Appa immediately. Don't hide it."
He nodded solemnly. "I will. Promise."
For a while after that, we just enjoyed the drive. Talking about random things, arguing about which rest stop had the best tea, laughing over silly jokes Santhosh made up on the spot. The road stretched ahead like a ribbon leading into a new world, and for the first time in days, I felt calm.
By 10:30 a.m., just as the sun grew harsher overhead, we finally reached the school gates.
It wasn't flashy or grand, but it was sturdy, clean, and welcoming. I could see very few cars in the parking lot, the check-in time is still around 4 in the evening, and people come as late as possible, like 6, because they want to spend more time at home.
Appa slowed the car to a stop, and for a moment, all of us sat there in silence, just taking it in.
The real beginning was here.