After a hearty lunch that left us all feeling warm and lazy, we decided to resume our shopping. There were still a few essentials left—shorts, track pants, night suits, and innerwear. This part of the shopping wasn't as flashy as choosing printed T-shirts or funky accessories, but it still mattered.
We walked into a series of local stores, the kind that Tiruppur is known for—no-glamour, but pure function. Racks were piled high with soft cotton nightwear, breathable track pants, and comfy undershirts in every size imaginable.
"Let's get one size bigger for inners," I told Amma, holding up a pack of vests. "He's going to grow soon."
Most of the picking was for Santhosh and Appa. Amma didn't need much, and I had already made a list for hostel shopping earlier. I loved the feeling of choosing things for them, trying to match comfort with style. Picking out cartoon night suits for Santhosh and soft, simple cotton pants for Appa gave me a weirdly satisfying sense of control. It made me feel useful.
Once all the bags were loaded into the car, it looked like we had looted a warehouse. The car smelled like new clothes and plastic wrappers. We finally started our journey back to Erode. The sun was mellowing down and so were we, sinking into a content silence.
I turned to Appa and said, "Appa, why don't we put Santhosh in a professional badminton class? Not just for fun, but like a regular thing."
"Badminton? Seri ya irukum." (That sounds okay.) Appa looked thoughtful. "But why suddenly?"
"Well," I started, "Sports classes can really help kids like him. You know, it helps with ADHD."
Appa nodded, looking back at Santhosh through the rearview mirror. He was playing with a keychain we'd picked up as a freebie, his attention darting in and out of the conversation.
ADHD—Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder—isn't something a lot of families in India talk openly about. It's often misunderstood, brushed off as just being "too naughty" or "not focused." But it's more than that. It affects attention, impulse control, and energy levels. It makes classrooms hard, instructions harder, and concentration nearly impossible. But the right support changes everything.
"We're lucky we even found out he had ADHD," I murmured, watching Santhosh giggle at something outside the window.
Appa glanced at me. "Hmm. Lucky, indeed."
It all started years ago when we lived in a rented house. Our landlord and his wife loved Santhosh—especially because of his round cheeks and the way he clung to them. They'd take him home, let him play, and even bathe him sometimes, treating him like their own.
Their son also had ADHD, and one day the landlord's wife casually said to Amma, "Santhosh is a bit like our son, no? I can see similar signs."
At first, Amma dismissed it. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Santhosh was always hyper—climbing furniture, tearing books, constantly moving. He couldn't sit still in class, couldn't even add basic numbers without losing track.
After some gentle nudging, my parents finally consulted a doctor, and the diagnosis confirmed what we'd suspected.
Looking back, I realise how fortunate we were to have caught it early. Many families miss the signs until it's too late to intervene effectively. With ADHD, the earlier you catch it—ideally before age three—the better the chances of managing it well. That's when the brain is still developing rapidly, and timely intervention can rewire responses, regulate behaviour, and improve focus.
When diagnosed early, kids can be supported with structured routines, guided behavioural therapy, and—if needed—medication like mild neuro-related drugs that help balance the brain's chemicals. These aren't sedatives like people often fear. They're carefully dosed treatments that help the brain filter distractions and maintain attention. Along with it, psychological counselling plays a major role. A child slowly learns how to manage impulses, express emotions, and build resilience.
But if diagnosis is delayed—let's say around age 10 or even during adolescence—it becomes harder. The habits, frustrations, and coping mechanisms have already set in. The brain, though still moldable, becomes harder to steer. You can still treat ADHD in adults, of course, but it's a longer and more difficult road. Sometimes, those untreated symptoms stay with a person into their twenties, even their thirties.
I've seen what that looks like in others. Adults who still carry the energy of a twelve-year-old in a twenty-five-year-old's body. They forget appointments, zone out during conversations, bounce from job to job, or worse—get labeled as lazy or careless. But they aren't lazy. They're trying to row a boat with no oars in a stormy sea. If someone had given them those oars when they were younger—those tools—they would've reached the shore with fewer bruises.
ADHD isn't just about being hyperactive or forgetful. It affects self-esteem, relationships, and decision-making. Imagine knowing you're smart but not being able to focus long enough to prove it. Imagine being told your whole life that you're not trying hard enough, when in reality, you're trying ten times harder than anyone else just to stay in your seat.
That's why I want to be proactive with Santhosh. I don't want him to grow up carrying invisible burdens. I don't want his teenage years to be a blur of confusion and anger like they were in the last life. If sports can help him, we'll try sports. If he needs therapy, we'll find someone who listens without judgment. If he ever feels like he doesn't belong, I'll remind him that he does.
He's still a child now—curious, loud, and full of questions—but I can already see glimpses of the man he might become. I want that man to feel strong, supported, and proud of how far he's come. And this time, we're starting early. This time, we know better.
Santhosh was a preterm baby—born at 7 months. He was always more sensitive, emotionally and physically. School was never easy for him. He struggled to focus, not responding when we called him sometimes.
From his first day in playschool, I started going to check on him every break. I'd sneak into his classroom, talk to his teacher, and try to make sure he wasn't upset or left out. It became a habit. Every single day till I finished my schooling, I did that.
One of the reasons we managed to stay in school without changing institutions constantly was because of our Principal, Subha ma'am. A kind, patient woman who didn't label kids easily. She stood up for Santhosh when others doubted him. "He needs patience, not punishment," she once said. I'll never forget that.
In my past life, I made a lot of sacrifices for him. After finishing my bachelor's, I took a two-year gap to figure out my own life and help him with his 11th and 12th. His 11th coincided with COVID, which made it a little easier to manage, but I still felt like I could have done more.
The one thing I missed was getting him proper psychological help. I noticed the schoolwork issues, yes, but I failed to see the emotional toll it was taking on him. This time around, I've promised myself—I'll be better.
I've already seen how good he is at sports. Badminton, especially, seems to anchor his attention in a way nothing else does. He loves it, and he's genuinely good. The coordination, the movement, the one-on-one nature of it—it suits him.
So, I brought it up seriously in the car.
"Appa, I think we should ask around about sports academies. Regular coaching, not just summer camps. It can help him channel his energy."
Appa was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "That's a good idea. Let's talk to your school PE teacher and check."
Santhosh, suddenly aware we were discussing him, perked up. "Na badminton class pogalama?" (Can I go to a badminton class?)
I turned back and smiled. "Only if you promise to tell us if anyone bullies you or says something you don't like."
He nodded, eyes wide and honest. "Promise!"
I patted his head and said, "Good. Because from now on, I won't be in your school, but I need your promise that you will be a big guy and tell our parents if anyone annoys you. Everything. We're gonna make sure you get all the help and chances you need."
It was a long drive, but my heart felt full. Life was giving us another chance, and this time I was going to use every bit of knowledge and love I had to make things better for all of us.