I had only begun packing when two hovering figures entered my room silently. I was sitting with my back towards the door, but I exactly knew who they were. I knew the footsteps for I had them memorised for years now, and I have memorised them to the point where if they would stamp down anywhere in the whole world, I would know who it is.
It was my siblings who entered the room and like every sibling set we had ‘no rules for privacy’ and so they took a seat next to me without a saying word, and I threw a cold glance at them but that never seems to work, does it? On the cold marble floor, beside me was a pile of clothes, toiletries and all the things that I needed to travel and I on the other hand didn’t have the courage to tell my mother that I don’t need more clothes to take with me, and yes that the shampoo that I will be keeping, will be just enough. She is my mother, and I don’t have the courage to tell her many things in one go, because her cold glare works just better than mine ever will.
I lazed about on the floor, staring at the heap of clothes and the empty suitcase. My sister, who has always had a knack for organising things takes this as an opportunity to commence the packing officially, and just to help somewhere to distract my mind from this laborious task, and my brother decides to play some songs to add to the silence. Well. there is one weird thing about him that he would never listen to songs that would have proper lyrics in them, rather he would listen to tunes and me and my sister would make fun of him saying “Why are listening to ringtones?” but anyways he would still go on playing it.
So there goes one ringtone after the other, and all we could talk about was how this journey would be the best one ever for me. It was a bittersweet moment just like the rains in the monsoon, with soothing sights and messy mud or it could even be like the last embrace of a lover when you know you would never get to meet again.
We laughed for a few moments, fought for another ten and in the sprinkles of the last few moments we stared at each other. It wasn’t a stare out of love, nor it was a stare out of hate. My suitcase was packed and the heap was gone. The glances of ours were empty but my suitcase was finally packed. I didn’t even realise when they kept every part of my young days, in the crevices of the red box, stuffed tightly, making sure nothing of is left to be lost. It was a stare out of completion. The sun had finally taken the last lap around the sun, and suddenly I wasn’t as young as I used to be.
At 18, I felt my back hurt and my eyes could not see clearly. An eternity had passed away and all I did was laugh, cry, have fun, land myself in problems, love, live and whatnot. I was bound to get old as I lived a whole life and look at me, standing dazed and confused as I am at the beginning of a whole life new already. As I said, it was a bittersweet moment, just like the oldest child leaving home to make a new one in the foreign streets. I wanted to tell my mother that the spices she kept would be only enough to tie me to home for some weeks and the ‘achaars’ she packed would be a little less than oily.
I realised that the sun had gone down, and tomorrow I leave too after 18 years 2 months and 12 days. The heap of memories are packed and somewhere my room is filled with everything but it is missing its 1/3rd part. Once, the conversations that I used to be a part of as a family, now I will be the topic of conversations that they will have as a family. I could return home anytime I want, and I made myself at peace with this, but the truth is that no person who ever walked out of the door returned to the same home ever, just the walls. I have been cocooned for so long and maybe metamorphosis isn’t so easy even if you’re born a butterfly.
What could I say to make myself at ease and do justice to it, because The heart is where I made my home? The home is where I found my heart. I know that someday we all will have to leave home and yes, it is hard to leave home but it is surely the hardest when you have to do it first.
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