Nobody said it’s easy being away from home. Especially when your head’s spinning and your body’s burning up in a fever—that’s when it’s the hardest. And that’s when even the most self-reliant person feels most lonely.
I wish I could go home just for the weekend. (That wouldn’t be the best idea, of course. The fastest way would be to fly to NYC, then jump on the non-stop 16-hour-flight to Bombay, say hello to a rather shocked family, exchange a few quick hugs and kisses and then pop back on the flight to make it back in time for work on Monday.)
Because with every sunset I miss home more. Every thing reminds me of home even if it doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to that place I grew up in. Chilly mornings and fall colors remind me of weather in my tropical country; warm summer days remind me of winter holidays in the Nilgiri Hills—there’s no logic, no notion of place, only nostalgia.
A sign that I’ve been away too long. And I know it’s time to leave the life I’ve built in the last four years because all it is now is an empty room with beautifully painted walls, and art that’s unique to me and my experiences. But I’m afraid I’ll miss this emptiness and solitude and that’s kept me here for longer than I’ve wished. Because what’s harder than going home is leaving a place you’ve called home for almost half a decade knowing you’ll never return.
