Nila woke up before her alarm. The room was still and dim, her roommates curled up in their blankets, breathing in soft sync. The crisp morning air seeping through the open window was a welcome relief from the stuffiness of yesterday. She folded her bedsheet neatly, rolled up her yoga mat, and stepped softly into the corridor.
The concrete floor was cold under her feet as she stretched into her first Surya Namaskar. Ten minutes in, she could already feel her body warming up, the stiffness from hostel bedding slowly giving way. After the last pose, she sat cross-legged with her eyes closed, focusing on her breath.
After a quick bucket wash, she rinsed her socks and innerwear, wringing them out carefully and hanging them on her discreet corner of the shared drying rack. She liked doing these chores early—before others started hogging the wash area or messing up the line with half-dripping towels.
By 8 a.m., she was one of the first to walk into the dining hall. The usual clanging of plates and loud chatter hadn't begun yet. A few girls from other blocks sat silently over their breakfasts, and the television mounted near the entrance was playing a muted news channel.
She took a plate of poori and masala and found a table by the window. The poori was warm, slightly oily, but decent. She watched the news, mostly half-listening: something about petrol prices, a speech by a minister, and an ad for a coaching institute she vaguely remembered from her past life. The emptiness of the dining hall felt familiar, almost peaceful, like yesterday.
Back in her dorm, the scene was unchanged—cots rumpled, shoes tossed, cupboards partially open. But her space looked different. Tidy. Predictable. Her bedsheet was folded tightly at the corners, and her cupboard shelves were aligned by category. A part of her was proud of that. But another part reminded her: Weekends often mean surprise inspections.
She crouched near her cupboard and opened it with a soft creak. Everything looked fine at a glance, but she went over the checklist in her head anyway.
Phones or smartwatches? She didn't have any secret phone yet, though she mentally noted it would be useful someday, for being in contact with the outside world or taking notes. But for now, only her regular keypad phone and allowed charger sat in the top drawer. Harmless.
Junk food? She had already eaten a fair share of what she'd brought during the last shopping trip. What remained - half a packet of chocolate biscuits, some spicy mixture, and a bar of dark chocolate—was stuffed neatly into the shoebox that originally held her new uniform shoes. She slid the box into the bottom of her trolley bag and zipped it up. They rarely opened trolleys unless something suspicious came up.
As for nuts and dry fruits, she left those out in the open. No one would object to almonds or dates. Amma had even said, "Let them see it. You need energy for all this walking and hostel food."
Unauthorized books or comics? She didn't have any—at least, not yet. No romance novels tucked under her pillow, no adult-themed paperbacks wrapped in newspaper like some of the girls from her old school used to hide. She had considered asking Appa to bring a few from the town library, but she wasn't ready for that conversation yet.
Letters from boys? Nothing. Not even from girls. Her diary was blank after the first two pages, though she had big plans for it—someday. She double-checked her bag just in case.
The place was already clean. There was nothing more to do. But still, she wiped the top shelf once, then again, just to feel in control.
It was only 9:30 a.m. The room was quiet except for the low hum of a distant ceiling fan. Most of her roommates were still asleep or half-awake, lost in their weekend laziness. No one noticed her quietly rearranging her cupboard or stuffing the shoebox into the trolley. It wasn't panic, just caution. A kind of instinct that told her: Be ready, even if nothing happens.
She stood up, brushed her palms against her nightwear, and took one last look at her cot. Crisp, clean, and plain—just the way she liked it.
The air outside had warmed by the time Nila stepped out again, this time in her track suit and campus-issued sports shoes. A group of seniors—mostly eleventh and twelfth graders—were already jogging around the cement court, some stretching lazily, others dribbling a basketball. It wasn't an official game hour, but weekends offered an unspoken freedom to move before the warden made rounds.
She jogged a few laps to warm up, then joined a badminton game where players switched every ten minutes. She wasn't very competitive yet, but it felt good to move, to let her breath quicken and her body catch up with her racing mind.
Sweat glistened on her temples as she walked back to the block. Instead of heading straight to her room, she took a detour to the TV hall. Her cotton t-shirt clung slightly to her back, and the slippers she had changed into after games slapped against the tiled floor. She pushed open the door to the common room, expecting the usual dull hum of weekend laziness.
But instead, she walked into a low-volume argument.
"No, we agreed last week also, Hindi channel till 11," Pavani said, holding the remote like a sceptre of authority.
"We agreed because you people gang up," retorted Jai Harini, her arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "Sixty percent of us are Tamil. Why should we keep watching Bollywood videos every weekend?"
Prerna and Mahathi sat on the beanbags, clearly aligned with Pavani. Sashtika and Amritha were on the other side of the room, visibly annoyed.
The TV screen displayed a splashy dance number—Hindi film music, thumping with energy. Nila stayed near the door, unsure if joining in would escalate things. She quietly slid down into a corner seat.
"I'm okay with both," she offered, her voice neutral. "Maybe we can switch every thirty minutes?"
No one responded.
It wasn't about the music. Not really.
It was about space—who owned it, who belonged more, and which language got to be loudest when no adults were watching. The school insisted on English in class and conversations, sometimes even threatening disciplinary action for using Tamil during discussions. It felt artificial, like wearing stiff shoes that didn't quite fit. But now, in the common room, that tension trickled into entertainment choices.
"They play Hindi at school, in the bus, in school day functions. At least let Tamil have the TV," muttered Sashtika.
"Bollywood songs are nicer than kuthu stuff. Better production," Pavani said, without looking up from the television.
Mahathi smirked. "Yeah, and everyone understands them. Even Telugu and North Indian girls vibe to it. Tamil is too local."
That stung.
Nila remembered the fights she'd seen play out in her past life too. Different faces, same friction. Language in India wasn't just about understanding—it was about identity. Tamil wasn't just local—it was hers. Even if she liked Hindi songs, even if she had posters of Shah Rukh Khan in her past bedroom, there was a quiet indignity in being expected to compromise every time.
The warden wasn't around. No one would stop them. It was up to the girls to sort this out—or silently surrender.
The volume stayed low. No one was dancing. The music felt loud only because of the silence around it.
Nila looked at the clock. 10:45.
The fight had simmered, but the tension stayed. Eventually, Pavani handed the remote to Mahathi and went out to call someone. Sashtika walked out too, muttering something under her breath.
She had imagined weekend mornings in the hostel would be calm, peaceful. Maybe some laundry, maybe a movie. But here she was—sitting in the middle of an invisible line drawn across language, culture, and quiet grudges.
She wasn't sure where she stood.
Nila stayed back after the TV was turned off. The room had emptied, the argument dissolved not by agreement, but by fatigue. Some girls had gone for their bath, others back to their beds. She remained seated, chin resting on her palm, gazing at the blank screen as if it would answer the questions echoing in her head.
She loved Tamil.
The sound of it, the rhythm, the depth of emotion it carried even in casual speech. It was her first language, the one in which she first learned to cry, laugh, pray, and think. In her past life, she wrote kavithai and katturai with ease—poems and essays that won her prizes at school. She had once gone to an inter-school competition and recited a piece on Anbu, and her Tamil teacher had cried. Language was never just language to her. It was belonging.
But she also remembered how it felt to be in Delhi for her postgraduation—how knowing broken Hindi helped her manage hostels, markets, and conversations in chai shops. How her classmates assumed she'd speak it fluently just because she was Indian. And during her undergraduate exchange program abroad, she often felt the same weight of expectation—foreign students expecting her to speak Hindi like Bollywood heroines.
It wasn't fair, but it was real.
That's when she had promised herself: Next time, I'll be ready.
Not just to speak, but to navigate.
To express.
To connect.
In this life, she would not stop at Tamil. She would become better at Hindi—not for anyone else, but for herself. She wanted to be able to reply confidently, not feel small in railway stations or shopping malls.
"She'd refine her English too. She was already good at it—after all, she couldn't have spent a year in the UK otherwise. But now, she wanted to get better. To understand the differences between British and American English, and speak with the kind of fluency that didn't just come from books, but from confidence."
And then there was Korean—the language she'd fallen in love with quietly while watching series under her blanket, volume low and heart full. She had memorized simple sentences, mimicked their expressions. It wasn't just about the drama—it was about how alive the culture felt. How stories were told.
Later, during postgraduation, she picked up basic Chinese—more structured, harder, but beautiful in its own way. Her fascination had begun with costume dramas and ended with her scribbling characters into her diary like secret codes.
In this life, she would learn all these languages again—and more, if fate allowed.
That's why she had chosen French this year.
Not for fashion. Not for marks.
But for curiosity.
Because she had learned something important: loving Tamil didn't mean she had to limit herself. She could hold it close like a seed and still grow branches in all directions.
And she would.
One word at a time.