I didn't wake up fresh or dreamy the morning after our banana leaf dinner. My sleep had been constantly interrupted by the sound of someone pacing near the bedroom door, sighing dramatically now and then. I knew exactly who it was.
My younger brother had woken up with one thing on his mind: badminton.
He had been talking about it all evening yesterday—how he missed playing, how his smashes had become rusty, how he had seen kids from our neighborhood playing near the park and got jealous. And now, at 6:45 AM, he was walking up and down like a ghost with a mission.
I tried to ignore it, pulling the blanket tighter around me. But then he knocked on the door.
"Nila Akkaaaaa," he said in that drawn-out sing-song voice. "Come play badminton with me."
I groaned. "Go play with Appa. He leaves early, right?"
"He's already gone! He left at 6. He'll come only by 7:30."
I sat up, squinting at the clock. 7:00 AM. "Why me?" I asked, yawning.
"Because you're the only one awake now. Amma said she's not moving a toe till 8."
And just like that, I was pulled out of bed and into the little concrete patch in our front yard, holding a badminton racket I hadn't touched in years.
I was never the sporty one in the family. My idea of a workout was walking from the kitchen to the fridge. But my brother? He was born with natural talent. Fast feet, precise aim, and enough energy to power an entire metro line. He didn't just like badminton—he lived it.
"Serve properly," he said, adjusting his racket.
"I'm trying," I muttered, flicking the shuttle weakly. It landed a foot away from him.
He didn't even try to hit it. "That's not a serve. That's a surrender."
I stuck my tongue out. "Play with respect, mister."
But I had to admit—even with me fumbling all over the place, it felt nice to play. The morning breeze was still cool, the sun hadn't started scorching yet, and the birds in the neem tree were louder than our silly arguments.
A few rallies later, we heard Appa's scooter pull into the gate. He looked at us with his gym bag slung over his shoulder, sweat-soaked t-shirt sticking to him, and a bright smile on his face.
"Badminton match so early in the morning?" he asked, amused.
"Akka's terrible," my brother said, without hesitation.
"Then I'd better join and balance it out."
He tossed the bag inside and took my racket. "You go stand in the middle. I'll handle him."
I stood awkwardly at the center, completely forgotten as the real match began between the two of them. My brother was fierce, but Appa had technique—tricky wrist movements and surprise drops that left my brother scrambling. Their laughter, grunts, and competitive cheers filled the yard.
Soon, Amma came to the doorway, toothbrush in hand. "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," she called. "Don't get too sweaty!"
By the time we were all tired and breathless, Amma had already laid out a steaming breakfast on the dining table.
Idlis, soft and fluffy, still warm from the steamer. Sambar loaded with drumsticks, carrots, and that rich, tamarind smell that makes your mouth water. And of course, coconut chutney, freshly ground with green chillies and tempered with mustard seeds, curry leaves, and a hint of ginger.
We sat together, still in our mismatched nightclothes and slightly sweaty from all the playing. My brother stole extra chutney, Appa asked for another ladle of sambar, and I just sat there, plate in hand, smiling.
Suddenly, I didn't want the morning to end.
The warmth of the meal, the laughter still hanging in the air, and that content feeling of having done something together—it made me want more. Just a little more of this closeness, of being a family with no rush.
So I turned to Appa and asked, "Do you have anything important today?"
He looked surprised, mid-bite. "Important like what?"
"Work… meetings… client calls?"
He shook his head. "Nothing urgent. Why?"
I grinned. "Let's go somewhere. Just us. Amma, you, me, and our badminton champ."
Appa raised an eyebrow. "Like where?"
"Tiruppur," I said without thinking too much. "For shopping. It's been a while since we did a random family trip."
His eyes sparkled in amusement. "Tiruppur, huh? Suddenly craving T-shirts?"
I shrugged. "I want to pick some cotton stoles… and I heard those tiny factory outlet shops have cute nightwear sets."
Amma blinked, surprised. "Today? Just like that?"
"Why not?" I said, shrugging like it was the most natural thing. "It's not like we haven't done this before."
And that was true.
My dad, being a textile businessman, specifically a fabric trader dealing with cotton materials, always meant our family had the luxury of impromptu getaways. He often scheduled quick trips to mills and showrooms, sometimes for work and sometimes just because he wanted to show us what he did. And on the best days, we tagged along, pretending to be serious helpers while secretly just enjoying the food, the drive, and the chaos of the wholesale markets.
That was one of the things I loved about him. He never let his business come in the way of life. In fact, he folded life into business so seamlessly that it always felt like one happy blur.
So, within the next hour, we were all packed and ready to go.
The drive from Erode to Tiruppur isn't too long—around 50 kilometers—but it feels like a mini vacation every time we do it. As we got into our car, I grabbed my window seat. The roads were familiar, winding gently through a stretch of small towns, coconut farms, and eucalyptus tree patches. Buses with "Super Fast" written in bright yellow sped past us, and I watched motorcyclists with large cloth bundles tied behind them—probably heading to textile units or warehouses. Tiruppur always moved to the rhythm of cotton.
Amma had packed water bottles and some spicy mixture in a dubba, like she always did. My brother opened the snack box before we even crossed Perundurai.
"Leave some for the way back," I scolded.
"Not my fault it's tasty," he said with his mouth full.
As we approached Tiruppur, the skyline slowly changed—not with tall buildings, but with long stretches of factories, dyeing units, and wholesale showrooms with names like "Cotton King," "Textile Bazaar," and "Fashion Mart." The smell in the air changed too—part cotton dust, part ironed fabric, and part that faint chemical tang that comes from dye houses.
I always loved that smell. It reminded me of Appa's work, of childhood days spent watching rolls of fabric being cut and measured, and of the excitement of picking a few "extra" meters for Amma to stitch something nice for me.
The idea of shopping as a family felt comforting now. No malls, no AC showrooms—just open-fronted shops with piles of export rejects, sweet shop breaks in between, and the joy of haggling over twenty rupees.
Appa looked at me in the rear-view mirror and smiled.
"Thanks for suggesting this," he said.
I smiled back, resting my head near the glass window, the breeze warm and dry on my face.
Maybe this was my actual second chance. Not to rewrite the past, but to relive the good, and this time, truly feel it.