We reached Tiruppur by around 10:15 a.m. and parked the car near the railway station—Appa always finds this reliable spot near the bakery street junction, under the shade of an old peepal tree. The place was already buzzing with the usual clatter of buses, autos, and freight vans. That typical Tiruppur smell hung in the air—fresh cotton mixed with the faint, oily scent of ironed clothes and spiced tea. It somehow felt like the whole city was always halfway through its second wash cycle.
Our first stop, of course, was the tea stall. Appa never starts any shopping day without a "suda suda tea," and Amma joined him with one hand wrapped around the paper cup, blowing gently. I opted for Horlicks, a habit I've had since I was little. Even now, the thick malty drink warms my heart like a hug. My brother grabbed a Boost, drinking it like he was sipping something so serious and manly—as if it was protein powder in a gym shaker.
"Now that we're all energized," Appa said with a grin, dusting his palms together, "Shall we start with t-shirts?"
Everyone nodded, and off we went.
Tiruppur is not just any city. It's the heart of India's knitwear and banian industry—an empire stitched with cotton and sweat. For decades, it's been one of the largest hubs for exporting hosiery and readymade garments to Europe, the US, and even the Middle East. The city might seem simple at a glance, but behind those modest showrooms and godowns lie connections that stretch across the globe. Rows of textile units buzz day and night—cutting, stitching, dyeing, pressing, and packing. It's the kind of place where a single street has at least five factories and ten showrooms, all run by sharp-eyed businesspeople who have mastered both quality and cost.
And we weren't just here to shop—we were here with Appa, who is a cotton fabric trader himself. His world revolves around yarn counts, combed cottons, colourfastness, and supply chains. While he's based in Erode, Tiruppur is like his business playground. On days like this, when business and personal life casually meet over tea and t-shirts, it felt like we were a real team. A family team.
Appa has this habit—when he's in work mode, he walks with purpose. Even while shopping casually, you can sense that businessman inside him scanning the materials, calculating margins, comparing patterns, and touch. Amma teases him often, "Even if it's for your daughter, you'll act like you're going to export to Germany."
"Germany ku illana enna, Neelavai London ku anupalam!" (What if not Germany, we will send Nila to London) he jokes back, and we all laugh. I love how they both carry that quiet humour in everything.
Our first showroom had racks upon racks of soft, pastel-coloured t-shirts. My brother ran straight to the ones with superhero prints, especially anything with Spider-Man. Amma picked out plain round-neck cotton ones for him—she always says solid colors last longer, and stains won't shout out on them. For me, she picked out a light lavender tee with a cute knot at the waist and another mustard yellow one that read "Not a Morning Person,"—which is painfully accurate.
While I was busy checking sizes, I noticed Appa quietly speaking to the shopkeeper in a half-whisper, asking about new cotton blends and stock availability in bulk. Even here, amidst our little family shopping trip, his mind hadn't entirely left work. But the beauty of it? He never lets that part of him interrupt our joy.
By the time we finished at the first shop, we already had one giant cloth bag filled. I felt that familiar thrill of shopping as a family—no rush, no endless browsing, just purpose and laughter.
After checking out a few more branded outlets, Appa suggested we head over to the local export surplus shops.
"These are the ones with real treasures," he said with a knowing smile, already leading the way down a narrower street, the kind where mannequins stand outside like tired guards and a thousand t-shirts are layered from ceiling to floor in wild, unmatched colours.
Usually, these are the shops where they sell export surplus or rejected pieces at much cheaper rates—₹50 a piece, sometimes even less if you bargain. It's ridiculously affordable. That's barely $0.50. But there's a catch. These places are like textile treasure hunts—you have to dig through piles and bundles of clothes, carefully separating the real gems from pieces with minor defects.
I'd always seen Appa do this—run his hand across fabrics, stretch the neckline lightly, inspect the inner stitches, and scan the hemline for any crooked threads or dye blotches. It used to look like magic, but this time, I was ready to try it on my own.
As Amma and my brother waited near the fan (because Tiruppur heat doesn't care about your plans), I dove into a mountain of t-shirts. The smell of starch and dye, the sound of plastic wrappers being torn open, and the occasional shout of a salesman shouting "Ma'am! Polo collar! Just came today!" made the whole scene lively and chaotic.
I began checking one by one, first feeling the fabric. If it was too thin or rough, it went to the reject pile. Then I checked for holes, especially near seams. Some t-shirts had weird stitching, like the neckline wasn't symmetrical, or the sleeve length was off. Others had dye smudges—one bright orange tee had a giant blue fingerprint near the hem, as if someone in the factory decided to sign their name there.
But then came the good ones. A soft blue round-neck tee with a dinosaur in space print—perfect for my brother. A dark green polo with a contrasting collar and neat buttons—Appa's style to the dot. I found a coral-coloured tee that read "Born to Nap" and chuckled, thinking of keeping it for myself.
Slowly, my little heap of selected pieces started growing. Amma joined me halfway, picking out a few floral prints and handing me ones she thought my brother would like. But it was Appa's reaction that mattered most.
He picked up each t-shirt I had selected and examined them carefully. One by one. He ran his fingers over the seams, held them up to the light, and tugged lightly at the fabric edges. For a man who had been in the textile business for over twenty years, these weren't just clothes—they were lessons, quality checks, proof of whether I was paying attention to everything I'd seen him do over the years.
And to my surprise, he didn't reject even one.
"No holes... good fabric feel… print alignment is perfect… collar is strong…" he muttered to himself, impressed.
Then he turned to Amma and smiled, a little too proudly."Nee paatha? Onnuvum reject panna mudiyala. Nalla iruku ellam. Our girl is growing up."("Did you see? I couldn't reject even one piece. Everything is good. Our girl is growing up.")
I tried to act casual, pretending I wasn't absolutely glowing inside. But I noticed the way he looked at me—a kind of quiet pride that I used to see when he spoke about his work wins. Now it was directed at me.
Usually, when I picked clothes for others, he'd gently step in and redo my choices. Not to discourage me, but to teach me what makes good fabric. He believed in showing by doing. But this time, he didn't need to. I'd watched enough, learned enough. And now, without even realizing, I was following his footsteps—one careful selection at a time.
"Ippo enakku competition iruku," he laughed, ruffling my hair.
(Now I have a competition)
"Appa," I grinned, "I've been watching you do this my whole life. Time to retire and let me take over?"
Amma laughed while holding up a cotton shirt."Inimee business kooda thambi kitta edukka vendaam pola. Nila will handle everything."("Looks like we won't even need to hand the business over to your younger brother. Nila will handle everything.")
Appa just nodded with a mock-serious face."Aama daan. Onnum solla mudiyala. She's learning fast."("Exactly. I have nothing to say. She's learning fast.")
We bought around twelve pieces in total—some for my brother, a few for Appa, a couple for myself, and two plain ones for Amma to wear at home. The entire haul cost less than ₹600. Value for money, yes, but also something more—a memory stitched with fabric, sweat, and a little bit of pride.
As we stepped out of the shop, I realized how much I enjoyed this moment. Not just the shopping, but that feeling of being taken seriously by Appa—not as a kid tagging along, but as someone who truly belonged to his world.
Maybe I wasn't just following his footsteps. Maybe I was walking alongside him now.