It is a sinking feeling, this leaving home. I can never come to terms with it.
No matter how many times I bid them goodbye and board the train, I am never ready for it.
It is similar to the fear of rejection of your first love, the fear of a failed examination, your best friend's betrayal or a missed train. The unfathomable pit in the stomach and the heaviest lump in the throat cementing my feet to the cold hard floor.
The floor which was warm and playful, where Maa (mother) tells I took my first steps, in a blue white striped frock,curling my dainty fingers on hers, swinging from side to side barely maintaining the balance.
I collapse under the power of her sweaty wrinkled palm on my bowed down head. I slowly bat my eyelashes to catch the sight of Dadi's (grandmother's) disappearing arched back as she hobbles around the house to collect my clothes so as to wash them again as the washing machine cannot do justice to the cleanliness she desires.
Papa (father), my teleportation man for when I would sleep on the coarse sofa with one leg dangling in the air and wake up in a cocoon of white muslin sheets.My Santa Claus!
I try to swallow the lump to the abyss but to no avail. My lips are dry and eyes are moist. I cannot bear the weight of disappointment in the pleading hazel eyes of Bhai (brother) asking me to stay for another day. Bhai (brother) who would save money all round the year, coin by coin, to gift me my favourite pair of brand new shoes that I had been eyeing for a while.
I convince myself every time before I leave my hostel to go home for the holidays that it is because of the good food, the clean linen, the hot shower and free WiFi that I want to go there. It is a well-rehearsed lie. The one I take to the bed with me at nights.
But then here I am on my last night home and the truth bolts for freedom through the tightly sealed emotional well. And it gets away with major intensity, never fails to break me down to pieces. Tiny tiny pieces.
This is a place where I can sleep. Not just rest my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling till my eyes are sore and my brain can take no more.
This is where I can lay my guard down because of all the places on this planet, I know and I know for sure that nobody here, nobody is trying to hurt me, take benefit of me, is jealous of me, wants to push me down or betray me. This is where I can be myself and no one judges me. This is where I am truly happy. This is one place where my success means more to them, than to me.
I can laugh my heart out here, cry the darkest shades of black , shout at the highest shrillest pitch, throw tantrums like a baby and they will still bear with me. No, love me. They will stick with me because that's what family does, that's what home is. And it is never easy leaving home.
The harsh reality dawns upon me as the turmoil builds up. The cruel world, the mighty tornado, waiting to suck me in , in a brutal dirty world of ugly two-faced people, poverty, epidemics and hopelessness.
As a reflex, I recoil back into the warmth of Maa's (mother’s) chubby arms, safe arms. She cups my face in her lotus like hands and plants a big wet sloppy kiss with the muaaah sound being the sweetest symphony ever to have reverberated my ear drums.
I let her familiar body fragrance engulf me, every cell in my body breathes. A prayer escapes my parched lips to the heaven above as I trudge out of the black gates with heavy footsteps and a hollow heart.
