33. Books and Routines

The alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but I was already awake. Five o'clock arrived quietly, like the first breath of dawn, and I slipped out of bed before the others in the bay stirred. I rolled out my mat softly and eased into my yoga routine. The stretches weren't perfect, but they were becoming familiar. With every inhale, I tried to centre myself. With every exhale, I let go of what no longer served me—from yesterday or years before.

By 5:30, I was done. I folded the mat neatly and tucked it under my cot. After a quick bath, I changed into my uniform and headed to the pantry area. A row of steel tumblers waited on the counter, each filled with warm milk. The first sip always brought a strange comfort—different from home, but still grounding. I drank slowly, allowing the calmness to settle in.

By 6:00, I was seated in the hostel study room, my science book open, notes arranged just the way I liked. The room was quiet, with only a few senior girls scattered around, lost in their own thoughts. I didn't mind. I had promised myself that science and math wouldn't scare me anymore. In my past life, I let those fears cage me in, shape my choices. But not this time. This time, I would confront them with patience and courage.

At 7:00, we all walked to the school building. My bag was heavy—I'd packed every book and half the notes for each subject. My shoulders might ache, but my mind felt ready. The routine had begun to settle in, forming a rhythm I could lean into.

Assembly passed in a blur—prayers echoing through the corridor, announcements we only half-heard. Then came breakfast: soft idlis drenched in sambar, and a spoonful of sweet pongal I saved for the end. I shared the table with the same girls from yesterday's dinner. It struck me, quietly but surely—we were becoming a group. A rhythm within the rhythm. Sharing meals, sharing moments. Maybe even sharing the silences between.

It reminded me of my past life, of a similar group I had held close. Girls I had laughed with, cried with, grown up with. It felt like time folding in on itself. But this time, I carried the quiet burden—and gift—of knowing more than I should. I had been handed a second chance. I wouldn't waste it. These moments, these friendships—I would hold them dear. But I would also grow sharper, wiser. I would rewrite what could be changed.

Science was the first period. I had revised plant reproduction that morning, and to my surprise, I understood it better than ever. I wasn't just memorising diagrams—I could explain them. I even caught myself nodding along as the teacher taught, noticing details I'd skipped in my last life.

Then came math. The subject that used to haunt me now felt like a game of logic. I'd prepared well, and the formulas didn't intimidate me. I wasn't at the top of the class, not yet—but I wasn't lost either.

The third period was the library. Before leaving the class, I reminded everyone to bring a passport-size photo—we'd need them to open our library accounts. Once the bell rang, we formed a quiet line and walked together to the library. It was our first official visit, and there was a buzz of excitement, even among the quieter girls.

The librarian, a tall man with silver-rimmed glasses and a quiet authority, asked us to settle around the large central table—a heavy, boardroom-style one that dominated the middle of the room. Around us, every wall was covered with bookshelves, their spines forming neat patterns of faded color. It smelled faintly of dust and old paper. To some, maybe it felt stuffy. To me, it smelled like possibility. And as I stepped into the quiet, book-lined room, I felt a small, certain peace settle over me.

He called the class leader and vice leader, Nishanth, forward and asked for the total number of students. Then he handed them a bundle of blank library cards. "Fill them in and return them to me," he said. I volunteered to take charge of the girls' cards and passed them around. "Stick your photo, write your name, class, section, and roll number," I instructed, already halfway through mine.

Once I'd collected them all, I brought the stack to the librarian and watched as he carefully stamped each one, activating them. While he worked, I asked him about the borrowing system—how many books we could check out, what would happen if one got damaged or lost, or if we returned it late. He raised an eyebrow at my thoroughness but answered kindly. "Two books maximum. Ten days to return. Damage or delay means a fine."

When the registration was complete, he explained the rules to the whole class: library hours, borrowing limits, and how we could visit during recess or lunch. He pointed out different sections—newspapers near the entrance, magazines stacked near the window, fiction on the far end, and non-fiction and reference books by the wall closest to the librarian's desk.

I wasn't in the mood for stories today. Fiction would wait. Instead, I headed toward the reference section and browsed quietly until I found a simple French guide—something with clear grammar rules and basic exercises. I added it to my mental list and decided to check later if they had a similar book for math.

When the period ended, I stayed back during recess, finalizing the borrowing form and flipping through that French guide again. The others left for snacks or chit-chat, but I was content here.

English and social science passed in a blur. So did lunch. Afterward, I moved to a different classroom for language periods. Only about twenty of us across the entire ninth grade were learning French, so the session felt almost like a workshop. I raised my hand and told the teacher I was new to the subject. She smiled warmly and gave me tips—how to read small stories, label objects at home, and practice with flashcards.

We ended the day with one more math class and then two periods of social science. I was tired, but not drained.

After the final bell, I stayed back for a few minutes, carefully placing most of my textbooks and notebooks inside the classroom cupboard. I didn't want to carry the entire weight of school with me every day—just the essentials. So I left behind everything I wouldn't need tonight: science, history, and the thick bundles of notes we'd barely touched. Only my math homework notebook came with me. The rest, I arranged neatly inside the cupboard, thankful that half the notebooks were for the next semester and didn't need immediate attention.

My school bag felt feather-light compared to how it had pulled at my shoulders that morning. I felt freer—like a burden I hadn't realized I was carrying had suddenly been lifted.

Before leaving, I reminded the cupboard leaders to organize the shelves before locking them. "Tell the others to leave behind what they don't need," I said, soft but firm. "And before locking up, just make sure everything is neat—check what's inside, arrange them properly. You're responsible for what's stored here." They nodded, holding the keys like they were small treasures. I hoped they understood how important this small bit of order could feel in the middle of a hectic day.

For evening study time, between 3:30 and 4:30, all the hostel students had to shift to a different classroom. Once the day scholars left, only a single block remained open for us. Our entire class moved together, still seated section-wise, but it felt different—quieter, slower. The sound of fans humming, pens scratching paper, and the occasional cough echoed more clearly in this emptier building. It reminded me of those twilight hours back home, when the world paused just for a moment, and everything felt a little more sacred.

At 4:20, I packed up and rushed toward the cafeteria. The familiar smell of fried snacks made my stomach rumble. Today's treat was a warm veg cutlet and a cup of milk. I finished quickly, already thinking ahead. I had laid out my sports clothes neatly on my bed in the morning, anticipating this rush. Within minutes, I'd changed and was jogging toward the playground.

The routine blurred—games, laughter, calls for the ball, the evening sky slowly dimming into soft orange. My body moved on autopilot, but my mind was anchored to the day's lessons. During the evening study session, I had revised everything we'd learned that day and even made time to prepare for tomorrow. 

With a little time to spare, I opened my journal.

I've always loved writing. There's something about putting feelings into words that makes them real, traceable. And now, with a second chance at life, I didn't want to let even a single moment slip away unnoticed. So I started writing—not about the past life that still pulsed quietly in my memory, but about this life. This version of me. What I did, how I felt, who I wanted to become.

This journal would be my private time capsule. A record to look back on when I needed direction or courage. Or simply a reminder of how far I'd come.

I was eager for dinner, but more than that, I was counting down to phone hour. I had so much to share with Amma and Appa—tiny stories, silly updates, questions, dreams, ideas. I missed them in the way one misses a favorite song—something comforting and familiar that lingers in the background, always waiting to be heard again.

And as I sat there, pen still in hand, heart full, I realized—I wasn't just surviving this hostel life. I was starting to live it.