Lunch was simple today, and I finished early so I could go back to the school block before the crowd. The corridor was still quiet, the lunch bell echoing faintly in the distance. I walked to the reception area with the letter I had written during Math class, tucked carefully inside my notebook.
As I handed it to the office staff, he looked up, smiled, and said, "There's something for you too."
I blinked, surprised. "For me?"
He handed over a neatly folded inland letter and a small parcel box. I knew instantly. The letter must be from my brother—the one he was so excited about writing—and the parcel would definitely be from Amma.
It's rare these days to receive a physical letter, even rarer for an 8-year-old boy to send one. I might just be the first person Santhosh has ever written a letter to. That made it feel all the more special.
Even though emails are faster and cheaper, especially if you don't count the cost of the hostel's limited internet, nothing quite compares to the feeling of holding a handwritten letter. A real piece of someone's thoughts, touched and folded by them. I could already picture him asking Appa to buy him an envelope, Amma helping him write my hostel address, and the proud look on his face as he posted it.
The parcel was light but bulky. I didn't have to guess—Amma had probably stuffed it with snacks and homemade pickles, all carefully packed with layers of newspaper and love. She was always asking if I had enough food.
The staff handed me the register, the same one I'd signed when I first asked about posting letters. He smiled again, "First parcel of the term."
I signed my name and placed my posted letter on the stack, giving it one last look. My words were on their way home.
With the parcel in one hand and the letter held close, I walked slowly back to class, feeling a strange kind of warmth. Like home had written back.
The rest of the school day passed in a blur. I sat through the remaining classes without really registering what was being said. My mind was already home, thinking about the parcel, imagining what Amma might have packed, what Santhosh might have written.
During the 3:30 to 4:30 study hour, I settled into my classroom seat and completed the remaining bits of Maths and Social Science homework. Since I had finished most of the work last week, it didn't take me long. I checked and re-checked the answers—more out of habit than necessity. My mind wasn't on the assignments. It kept drifting back to the envelope tucked safely in my bag—the one with Appa's handwriting and Santhosh's excited scrawl on the back. As soon as the staff left the class, I carefully opened the letter my little brother had sent. It was folded unevenly and had a doodle of a badminton racket in one corner.
He'd written about going to school without me for the first time. How strange the morning felt without my voice yelling from the kitchen, asking if he'd brushed or reminding him that he was getting late. He said Appa tried his best to keep things moving on time, but it wasn't the same.
He also wrote about how the staff at school had asked about me—whether I was adjusting well, whether I had made friends. He'd told them I was doing great, and then he added in the letter, "But tell me if you're not. I can come there and scold them all if they trouble you." I smiled so wide reading that, I had to wipe my eyes before I turned the page.
He'd also mentioned that Rino sister had asked about me. That one line brought a flood of old memories. Rino. We were like mirror souls in our past life. Even though we didn't get the chance to study in the same city after I moved in 9th grade, just like now, we had never let the distance change anything. Letters, emails, and long, late-night phone calls. We both loved to write. It was our language of friendship.
I realized then that I needed to write to her soon. Maybe not just a "how are you" note, but a proper, long, messy, heartfelt letter. The kind that fills the paper and spills over the edge. The kind that carries parts of you with it.
After school, when I reached the hostel, I didn't stop by the canteen like I usually did. My stomach could wait. I rushed up the stairs, heart full and thoughts racing, to finally open the parcel Amma had sent. I didn't even change out of my uniform. I just threw my bag down gently and sat cross-legged on my bed, opening the parcel.
When I opened the parcel, the smell of home hit me first—warm, buttery, and oddly comforting. Amma had packed the biscuits I liked to dip in milk, the kind that melted instantly and left sweet crumbs at the bottom of the tumbler. Nestled carefully inside a reused sweet box were a few packets of the junk chips I loved from the local bakery near our house. I grinned. That was Santhosh's choice for sure—he must've insisted on buying it.
There were also two new novels, their covers crisp and bright. Appa's picks. He always made an effort to find something he thought I'd like—mostly classic fiction or stories with strong female leads. The parcel was a perfect mix of care, familiarity, and the silent language my family used to tell me they missed me.
I carefully arranged everything in my cupboard, the chips behind the notebooks, the books inside my locker. Then I packed my evening study bag with Science and French textbooks, changed into my track pants, and laid out a beautiful blue kurti and palazzo for the night study session. After slipping on my sports shoes, I made my way to the canteen.
Basketball practice was in full swing after that. Today, while warming up and passing the ball around, I overheard the seniors still gossiping about the weekend's "disobedience incident." Priya akka, one of the team captains, chuckled and said, "I thought you were a quiet, rule-following nerd. Didn't know you had it in you!" The others laughed, but it wasn't cruel. It felt oddly like… acknowledgement.
There was a trial match between Abhimanyu's house and Karna's house today. I wasn't in the playing five yet, but I was one of the substitutes. That meant I got to sit on the bench with the coach and analyze the match. I kept my eyes on the team's coordination, communication, who called out plays, and who silently backed each other up. Watching from the sidelines gave me a fresh perspective—not just on the sport but also on how people moved, worked, and existed in groups.
Evening study was held in the usual classroom, but my warden was in charge. She had this sharp tone in her voice today—extra alert, extra controlling. Every time I leaned over to ask a doubt or whispered to someone sitting beside me, she would immediately call me out.
"Don't talk unnecessarily," she snapped, even when I was just asking a one-line clarification. She kept repeating herself, louder each time. "You are not here to socialize."
It became clear what she was trying to do. Isolate me. Corner me. Make an example out of me. Maybe it worked on others, especially juniors who got scared and cried easily. But I wasn't going to crumble for something like this. If speaking up got me targeted, then fine. I wouldn't speak. I'd sit quietly. I'd stop asking questions. I'd only do what I understood.
I folded my arms on the table and stayed still. Not out of obedience, but out of protest. Even when a couple of my classmates gently tried to draw me into conversations again—"Nila, what's the formula for this?" or "Hey, leave it da, don't mind her"—I pretended not to hear them. I gave no expression, no signal. Just silence.
A little later, I got up to go to the restroom, just to clear my head. But again, she raised her voice. "Did I give permission? Why are you always walking off?"
I stood still. Took a breath. Asked politely, "Can I go, ma'am?" She nodded sharply.
These small moments don't break me. But they do irritate me. I'm not a rebel just for the sake of it. I follow rules when they make sense. But I won't bend over backward to please someone who's trying to test me with power plays. I know myself better now. I've lived long enough once before to recognize what matters and what doesn't.
As I walked back to the study hall, I smiled to myself. Not out of joy. Out of understanding. This place, like everywhere else, has its unfair moments and flawed people. But I wasn't here to impress anyone. I was here to study, to grow, to quietly build the life I came back for.
And that clarity was more powerful than any permission she could deny me.