It was a breezy evening. I was standing with my cycle waiting for the barrier to lift. My dad’s office was across the railway tracks. I had come to pick him up on my cycle. Well, he walked while I cycled back home. I loved such evenings when the vibes of a responsible grown-up brushed through my mind and the happiness of bringing dad back home filled my heart. We would stop by a grocery store and buy my favorite snack. Life was good until one day the idea of an independent child raced through two minds, dad and mine.
I guess I was influenced by the kids in school who lived in hostels. The idea of living with people my age day in and day out excited my innocent brain and I shared the thought with my family. The way adults think is quite different, of course. My dad found it to be a great way of raising me to be independent and also a chance of sending me to a better school with quality education. I guess my mom succumbed to the pleas made by both of us and the preparations for sending me to a hostel began.
I was admitted to a great school in Lucknow, India along with my partner in crime, my Maasi. Our hostel was at a walkable distance from the school. While I was going to the second grade she was going to the third. The principal of the school loved the both of us. At least the six years old me felt that. On the first day of school, I wore a beautiful yellow dress instead of the school uniform since I came directly from my uncle’s house. I went to the hostel in the evening along with my Maasi. And thus my hostel life began.
In the school, both of us would meet up during the breaks and run towards the canteen for samosas. In the evening we would walk back to the hostel together relishing the freedom of life. We soon became friends with the other kids in the hostel. Yet slowly the glamour started to fade away. The freedom was not as pleasurable as it seemed. Independence began to frustrate us. I began missing my mom and dad back home. I missed being at home without a care in the world. I didn’t want to be responsible anymore. I wanted to run away. Yet I would not talk to my parents over the phone. I would make my Maasi talk instead. I would leave it on her to convey the pain we were in. I would silently stand next to her and listen to both ends while tears rolled down my eyes.
After 20 days of such torture, it was around my birthday that my mom came to take me back home. A day before my seventh birthday my mom showed up at the canteen with my favorite Maggi in a box and passed it to me through the window. In the evening both of us were taken to my uncle’s house to celebrate my birthday the next day. We were happy to be back under the protection of the adults. I never wanted to go back to the hostel. I wanted to go back home. And so we did.
Just look at the happy me.
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