The car sped down the familiar highway, trees rushing past the window like lazy green blurs. It was around 4 p.m. when I suddenly remembered—I forgot to remind Appa to call my warden.
"Oh no!" I gasped, sitting up straight. "Appa, did you call my warden? They'll expect me to come back tonight!"
Appa raised his eyebrows as if I'd jolted him from a light nap. "Ayyo, I completely forgot too. Let me call now," he said, steering the car smoothly to the left and reaching for his phone from the dashboard shelf.
"No need to put it on speaker," I said quickly. "Just tell them… I have stomach pain. That I'm not feeling well. Slight discomfort. That should be enough."
Appa gave a small chuckle. "So we're lying to the school now?"
"Technically not a lie. My stomach does hurt—if you count the butterflies that won't go away."
Appa laughed again, then dialed the number. I heard only one side of the conversation, but he was calm, polite, and as always, confident.
"Vanakkam, ma'am… Nila here is having a mild stomach upset. Nothing serious, but I don't think she can manage hostel food or stay alone tonight. I'll monitor her today and tomorrow… yes, if needed, I'll drop her on Tuesday morning. If she gets better, maybe tomorrow evening. I'll call before sending her. Thank you, ma'am. Appreciate it."
He ended the call like it was no big deal and dropped the phone back in its holder.
I let out a huge squeal of joy and unbuckled my seatbelt for a second to lean over the front seat and hug him from behind. "You're the best, Appa! My superhero!"
Amma immediately turned from the passenger seat, her expression stern. "Nila, how many times to tell you? Don't climb and jump around while the car is moving. What if you startle him and he turns the steering too hard?"
"Let her be, Nila's mom," Appa said, shaking his head with a small smile. "She's happy. But Nila, sit properly, okay? Don't scream right next to my ear. I'm not deaf yet."
I laughed and settled back into my seat, heart bubbling with the kind of giddy excitement I hadn't felt in a while. One more full day at home. One more slow morning, maybe another cycle ride, and lots of Amma's food. One more night on my soft bed, reading Percy Jackson with Santhosh snoring nearby.
The road home never looked so beautiful. The rays of the setting sun slanted through the trees, casting long golden shadows across the tar. Street dogs barked as we passed, and groups of children with half-torn slippers raced along the roadside with sticks and tires, laughing, dusty, and free.
By the time we pulled into our street, the sky had turned a soft orange-pink. The jasmine vines on our gate had started blooming, and I could smell their fragrance even from the car.
Appa stopped the car in front of the gate, and I jumped out quickly to open it. Santhosh beat me to it, running in with his usual whoop of excitement. "We're home!"
Appa parked neatly in our usual spot, while Amma stepped out and began gathering her handbag and leftover snack wrappers from the trip.
As I closed the gate behind us, I took a moment to breathe. Really breathe. This house, this street, the very smell of damp earth and fresh sambar wafting from a nearby neighbor's kitchen—it was home. My real treasure.
Maybe the lie about my stomach pain wasn't noble. But it gave me a little more time to soak in all this magic. And I wasn't going to waste a single second of it.
The moment we stepped into the house, I felt it again—that strange but warm feeling like we'd been away for a week, even though it had only been a day and a half. The smell of the familiar—the worn-out coir mat, the hint of turmeric and tamarind still lingering in the air from Amma's kitchen, the click of the ceiling fan on its slow speed—everything welcomed me back like a long-lost friend.
"Feels like we've been away for so long," I said aloud, dropping my bag near the sofa and stretching with a yawn.
Amma smiled as she walked past with a vessel of soaked rice. "That's what good days do. They stretch time."
"I'm so glad we went to Isha today," I added, walking behind her. "You know what they say, right? We travel to faraway places, but never visit the tourist spots near our homes. Everyone talks about the Eiffel Tower, but how many of us go to Siruvani or Isha?"
Appa chuckled from the living room, where he was fiddling with the TV remote. "Exactly. People fly to Bali for peace but forget how calm our village pond is."
Santhosh came running in with his muddy sandals still on, a handful of something clutched in his hand. "Akka! I found this feather in the fields. See, see!"
"Shoo! First wash your hands and feet, Mister Bird Catcher," I said, herding him toward the bathroom.
"But—wait—Akka," he stopped midway, suddenly wide-eyed. "I forgot something."
I narrowed my eyes. "What?"
"My math homework! I didn't do a single sum!"
"Santhosh!" Amma called from the kitchen. "You said you finished everything yesterday!"
"I did the Tamil and EVS. But not math," he said sheepishly.
I sighed dramatically. "Okay, bring your books. I'll help."
A few minutes later, we were both on the floor near the coffee table—Santhosh with a pencil in hand and me with a red pen like a serious teacher. I walked him through the sums, and surprisingly, he wasn't that bad. He just needed some patience, a slower explanation, and someone who wouldn't scold him every time he forgot a step.
"Okay, now read the word problem slowly," I said, guiding him. "Don't rush."
"Akka, do they make word problems this boring just to punish us?" he asked, looking genuinely concerned.
"Exactly," I grinned. "That's why you need to outsmart them. Make your brain faster than their tricks."
While I was tutoring him, I could hear Amma in the kitchen, her bangles softly clinking as she chopped vegetables. The smell of sautéed onions and mustard seeds filled the house. Some kind of dinner magic was happening in there—I guessed upma or tomato rice.
Appa had settled on a family quiz show on the TV and was adjusting the volume. I could hear the anchor shouting something about the "next big brain" in Tamil Nadu. The living room felt warm, not from temperature, but from energy—safe, familiar energy. Everyone doing their own thing, yet somehow, we were all together in it.
This is what I missed the most when I was at the hostel. It wasn't the food alone or my own bed or even Amma's scoldings. It was this: the way the evening quietly moved forward in our home, like a slow stream of time. No big moments. Just laughter here, a complaint there, a late realization about homework, and Amma asking from the kitchen if we wanted curd or buttermilk.
After Santhosh finished his last sum and shouted, "Done!" like he won a gold medal, I ruffled his hair.
"Good job. I hope your teacher gives you a star tomorrow."
"Akka, I'm going to tell my teacher that you taught me. If she gives me extra homework, you're doing that too."
"Oh no," I said, standing up. "I'm retiring as your teacher tonight itself."
We heard Amma call us for dinner just then, her voice warm and cheerful.
"Appa, switch off the TV, food is ready!" she shouted.
He grumbled good-naturedly but turned the TV off, and all of us gathered at the table.
As we sat down, serving each other curd rice and pickle, a wave of contentment settled over me. Nothing grand had happened today—we hadn't gone to a palace or won a prize. But still, it felt like one of the happiest days of my life.
Maybe that's what growing up really is—realizing that the best memories don't always come wrapped in shiny paper. Sometimes, they're just ordinary evenings filled with bickering, food, and math homework.