The morning light streamed through my window, casting golden hues across the bare walls. The room felt emptier than I remembered. In my past life, it had been filled with bookshelves, posters, a study table cluttered with my notes, and a soft rug where I would sit cross-legged, lost in thought. Now, all that remained was a single Godrej almirah, standing tall in the corner—silent proof that this space was yet to become what I had once known.
I ran my fingers over the cool metal surface of the almirah, its presence both familiar and foreign. Just like this room, my life was yet to be furnished. I had the rare chance to build everything from scratch, to make new choices, to ensure I didn't repeat old mistakes. It was a humbling, almost overwhelming realization.
I know exactly how this room will look in the future—because I've seen it in my past life. Back then, it was fully furnished with bookshelves, a study table, a wardrobe, and posters I brought back from the UK. This time, I can renovate it differently. I can fix the mistakes I once made.
Just like this room, I can rebuild myself too. Now that I know how the future unfolds, I can make better choices. It's only June 2013. I'm back before the start of ninth grade. I'm just 14—standing at the beginning of my teenage years. And I already know what will happen until 2025.
I know how the economy is going to change. I know which courses will matter, which skills will be valuable, and which decisions I once regretted. In my past life, I followed all the rules society laid out. I tried so hard to be the perfect daughter, the perfect student—the model "good girl." But this time, I won't live for others.
I'm going to live doing the things I truly enjoy. I'm not going to care how others see me—because when life throws its biggest challenges at me, none of them will be there to help. Only my parents might stand by me, but even they will have to weigh society's opinions.
So, my plan is simple: I'll live my life the way I want. I'll be happy, and I'll try to keep my family happy too. Everything else comes after that. My happiness is the priority now.
Then thinking to myself, I needed to pen down all the important events from my past life before I forgot anything. There was so much I needed to remember, so many decisions that had shaped my past self—some good, some I wished to change. The weight of time-pressed upon me, urging me to act before the details slipped away like sand through my fingers.
Before I could dwell too much on it, Amma's voice pulled me back to the present.
"Nila! We need to make a list of things to pack and shop for. We'll do one category each day, so we stay organized! We only have a week left till school reopens!" she called out, her voice carrying the same enthusiasm as if she were planning a festival.
I smiled, momentarily distracted from my thoughts. Amma always had a way of making mundane tasks feel like exciting missions. I quickly grabbed a notebook and rushed to the living room, where she was already waiting, armed with a pen and an eager expression.
"Okay, let's start with clothes," she announced. "You need kurtis, night dresses, undergarments, and extra sets for hostel life. Tomorrow, we'll do toiletries, and the day after that, books and supplies."
I nodded, amused by her structured approach. She had done this before, for my past self, though I had never fully appreciated the effort she put into every little thing.
"Speaking of clothes, we should go to the tailor today to get your night dress and kurta stitched," she added, already making plans in her head.
"Actually, Amma, I also want to design some of my clothes," I said, an idea forming in my mind. "And I want to ask the tailor to stitch a small piece of scrap cloth inside every dress—so I can write my name on it later. That way, I won't ruin the fabric."
Amma raised an eyebrow but then nodded in approval. "That's a smart idea. Let's tell him when we get there."
---
A couple of hours later, we made our way to the tailor's shop. The tiny space smelled of fresh fabric and ironing starch. Rolls of colorful material were stacked against the walls, and the rhythmic hum of a sewing machine filled the air.
"Aah, Nila! You've grown taller!" the tailor uncle remarked, measuring my fabric with practiced ease. "Your Amma told me you'll be staying in the hostel. Big step, hmm?"
I nodded, watching as he expertly folded the cloth and pinned it in place. "Uncle, can you add a small piece of extra cloth inside every outfit? Just a blank one, with no stitch at the top and bottom, so that if I write my name with a permanent marker, it won't be visible outside."
He gave me a curious look but smiled. "Of course, that's easy to do."
"Also, Uncle," I continued, "for my nightwear, I want you to stitch matching shorts and straight pants with elastic waistbands along with each night shirt. One set will include a night shirt, shorts, and pants in the same material or print. I'll need five sets like that."
He looked impressed. "Matching co-ord sets, ah? Good choice. Easy to pack and mix around too. Done."
I nodded. "And for the kurtas… we're planning to stitch eighteen. But I don't want the neck design to be the same on all. Can you make each one with a different design? Maybe a few with keyholes, some boat necks, some with collars… just a bit of variety."
"Eighteen different neck styles?" he said with a mock gasp. "That's a designer collection!"
I laughed. "You're the designer here, Uncle."
He chuckled. "Okay, okay. I'll show you my catalogue, you choose."
"Oh, and pockets in everything please," I added quickly. "In the nightwear and all kurtas."
"Girls these days are sharp! No pockets, no peace," he joked. "Noted."
"And can you also stitch a few straight pants in common colors that will match with most kurtas? Like black, white, and maybe red?"
"Good thinking," he said, jotting everything down. "Mix and match options make life easier."
In my past life, this visit had been just another errand to check off the list. But today, I took in every detail—how Amma negotiated the stitching price and the tailor's assistant noted down the measurements in his old, ink-smudged ledger.
Once our order was placed, Amma and I stopped by a small café for juice before heading home. She ordered sweet lime juice for me, just like she always had.
"you were not kidding about designing your clothes," she asked.I smiled and replied I askeda few students when I gave my entrance exam about the dress code in school. they gave me a few ideas about how I can make my dress like I need to wear a kurta mostly because that's the dress code you need to wear in study time. like salwar kameez with dhuppata. but u know how I hate the usual ones sold in stores so I thought I would make kurtas, straight pants when I don't feel like wearing leggings, and some shawls so I can mix and match but also follow school drees code rules
"Do you remember how you used to insist on getting grape juice every time, but would always end up drinking mine instead?" she teased, handing me the glass.
I laughed. "I guess my taste has evolved."
She gave me a knowing look. "Some things change. Some things don't."
She sipped her drink and raised an eyebrow. "You weren't kidding about designing your clothes."
I smiled and leaned back in my chair. "When I went for the entrance exam, I asked a few students about the dress code. They told me it's mostly kurta with salwar and dupatta during study hours. But you know how I feel about the typical store-bought ones. So I thought I'd get kurtas stitched the way I like. I'll pair them with straight pants instead of only having leggings as options, and add a few stoles so I can still follow the rules, but feel like myself.
She nodded a hint of pride in her expression. "Practical and stylish. That's my girl."
And she was right.
I wasn't just packing clothes—I was stitching together a version of myself that felt freer, more like me. And Amma? She saw it before I even said a word.