Home Alone

It was my decision. It wasn’t too difficult for me. Even when I packed my bags and became the youngest person in the family to step out of home, I was happy. Happy that I was taking my chance at independence, giving myself the liberty to experience new things and exploring the opportunity to handle things alone.

I turned around to catch a glimpse of my parents who refused to leave the premises of the airport until I left; I caught my teary eyed mom, shying away lest I notice her. I ran back for a last hug and picked up my overweight bags. I was fine.

In a new city, it didn’t take me too long to find new friends. But I also witnessed many breakdowns, tears and calls by my friends saying all they wanted to do was go back home. I sat next to them and told them, “It’s going to be okay.”

Three years in the city that became home and there came moments when I was distraught, when I was too sick to move and when I was too heartbroken to speak, but never once did I say, “I just wish to go back home now.” It will be all right I thought.

Graduating hats flew and then I flew to another city. Another new city, another new set of friends and the whole story repeated.

But every time I look back, I wish I was there when my grandma breathed her last, I wish I was there to see my grandpa smile for the last time. Every time my sister sends me a photograph of my dog being sick, I wish I could rush back home and hug him tight, or when my mom sends me a photograph of the newly renovated rooms, I wish I could sit on that new sofa and then dirty the room just like I always do. And then there were those times, when I missed my brother’s engagement, the first in our generation, or when I couldn’t be home to see the elated look on my sister’s face when the guy she liked came home with his family, just because I couldn’t take an off from work. Every new city becomes home for me, yet many a times, I find myself home alone.

I wish to be home at times but every time I can’t, I grow a little bit stronger.