When it was almost lunchtime, Appa stepped back into his cabin with a slight stretch of his shoulders, the kind of gesture he did when his work load lightened.
"Kanna, done with your work?" he asked, glancing at the printer near me that had fallen silent.
I looked up from the neatly stacked sheets."Yes, Appa. I'm done. If you're leaving, we can go now," I said, pushing the chair back and gathering my things.
Appa smiled. "Good. We'll go home for lunch, rest for a bit. After that I might need to go to the mill to check on some processing and printing. You used to like seeing all that, right?"
My eyes brightened at the thought. In my past life I had loved those visits—the smell of dye baths, the rhythmic thud of machines printing patterns, the warm cotton running through rollers."Yes, Appa! I'd love to come," I said eagerly.
We packed up the files. I carefully slid my printouts into my bag as if they were treasures. Appa locked his drawer, and we stepped out into the noon heat, walking past the rows of looms and fabric samples, past the quiet hum of ceiling fans. The office felt like it was holding its breath for the post‑lunch session.
Outside, the sunlight was sharp but there was a familiar comfort in stepping back into Appa's car, in knowing we were heading home together. It was nearly 1 p.m. when we parked in front of our house.
Amma was waiting near the dining table with her usual warm smile. "I was about to call you both. Come, sit. Lunch is ready," she said, wiping her hands on the end of her saree pallu.
The aroma that greeted us was enough to make anyone's mouth water. Arisi Paruppu Sadam.
I couldn't help but grin. "Oh Amma, you made Arisi Paruppu Sadam!"
"Yes, ma," she said, lifting the lid of the wide steel pot. A wave of steam and a buttery, earthy fragrance rushed out, carrying the essence of home.
This dish—so simple, so special. Made with Ponni puzhungal arisi (parboiled rice) and toor dal cooked together, with small onions, tomatoes, and just enough garlic to deepen the flavor. A touch of turmeric, a generous sprinkle of sambar powder, and it became magic.
She served us hot portions, each spoonful soft and thick, the dal binding everything in a golden embrace. Then she placed a small katori of ghee near my plate."Put this on top," she said.
I did, watching the ghee melt over the steaming mound, seeping into each grain. Appa broke a crispy papad in half with a satisfying crack, and Amma set out tomato pickle on the side. The first bite was heaven—the richness of ghee, the mild heat of spices, the comforting texture of dal and rice.
"Oh my god, Amma… this is the best," I said with my mouth half full.
She laughed. "Eat slowly. There's plenty."
We sat together like that, the three of us, sharing stories in between mouthfuls. It was such an ordinary lunch, but for me—someone who had lost it all once—it felt extraordinary.
When we finished, Appa stood up, wiping his hands. "So, ready? If you're coming with me to the mill, we should leave soon."
I pushed my plate back and nodded. "Yes, Appa. Amma, I'm going again with him. Don't wait for me for evening tea."
Amma waved us off. "Go carefully. And don't forget to drink water there—it's hot."
We stepped back into the car, the afternoon sun now a little kinder. The drive took us through the heart of the town—past the market where vendors were folding up tarpaulins after the morning rush, past the roadside tea shops where college students laughed over tiny glasses of chai.
Soon, the road sloped gently upward toward the bridge over the Kaveri River. I rolled the window down. The breeze carried the faint scent of wet earth and river moss. The water shimmered below, broad and patient, as if it knew every secret of this land.
Crossing the bridge always felt like crossing into another world. On one side, the quiet bustle of our residential town—temples, schools, small groceries. On the other side, the hum of industry, the rhythm of labor.
As we drove into Pallipalayam, the air changed. It smelled faintly of dye, starch, and sun‑dried fabric. Trucks loaded with rolls of cloth rumbled past us. Shops displayed vibrant printed cottons, their colors bright even under the pale afternoon light.
I leaned back in my seat, smiling to myself. From a peaceful marketing region to a busy industrial zone, all in just a few minutes. This was my father's world—our family's world. And now, with a second chance in my hands, I felt a determination settle in my chest.
Today was just another ordinary day, but I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.
When we reached the mill gates, the security guard immediately straightened up and gave a sharp salute."Vanakkam, sir!" he greeted, pulling the heavy iron gates open.
Appa acknowledged him with a nod and drove in slowly. The familiar crunch of gravel under the tires filled the quiet afternoon air. We parked near the loading area, where a large van stood with its rear doors flung open. A team of workers was busy stacking and securing multiple bales of cotton fabrics—some wrapped in white sheets, others in printed samples ready to be dispatched. The air carried the mixed scents of fabric, starch, and the faint metallic tang of machinery oil.
Appa turned to me as he stepped out."Nila, before we go to the factory floor, we'll first meet the manager. I'll introduce you to him. Then we'll do a round."
I nodded quickly. "Okay, Appa."
We walked toward the main building. The reception area was shaded and cooler than outside, but alive with movement—clerks hurrying past with files, supervisors discussing shipments, the distant hum of weaving machines audible through the walls. Every few seconds, someone greeted Appa with a respectful nod or a warm "Vanakkam, sir."
"This is my daughter," Appa would say each time, and I would smile, folding my hands slightly in greeting. Some of them looked surprised to see such a young girl there, but they all smiled back politely.
We waited about ten minutes in the reception. I sat on the cushioned bench, watching the flow of people. There was an odd comfort in being part of this world—even as an observer, I felt connected to my family's roots in these looms and threads.
Soon, an assistant stepped out from a corridor and gestured for us to follow. We walked through a narrow hallway lined with framed certificates and photographs of the mill's milestones—foundation ceremonies, award functions, old black-and-white pictures of the first set of machines.
At the end of the corridor was an office room. The door was half open, and I caught sight of a man seated behind a large desk, stacks of reports around him. He looked up as we entered.
He was in his early fifties, perhaps older, but he carried himself with the energy of someone decades younger. His shoulders were broad, his posture upright, and there was a certain scholarly air about him—his spectacles resting low on his nose, his eyes sharp and observant. For a second, I felt like I was walking into a professor's cabin at college rather than a mill manager's office.
Appa smiled broadly. "Nila, this is Mr. Saravanan," he said with respect in his tone. "He was once my professor—my mentor. After that, he chose to work with me, and since then he has been like my right hand here."
I immediately folded my hands in a small vanakkam. "Vanakkam, sir," I said softly.
Mr. Saravanan's eyes warmed. "Ah, so this is the little girl I've heard about… not so little anymore," he said with a kind smile. His voice carried calm authority, and for a moment, I felt as though I was meeting someone who would become very important in my journey ahead.