How does it feel to move away from the place you finally found your comfort at, and move to an alien space, and seek for something which isn’t even there. Aditya Vir Singh on his experience of moving to the US, and leaving life, as we know it, behind.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of moving from place to place, forgetting places upon places, ceasing friendships upon friendships, is that it’s not easy. In fact, it might be one of the hardest things in the world. And so to have done it once more — just when I felt like I’d truly found my place, just when I was on the final stretch to college, just when I’d found the people worth calling home — is hard to just brush off as if it means nothing. Because in all honesty, it meant everything.
It’s painfully easy for people to say that life goes on, and not know how much it hurts that you can’t will it to slow down sometimes. All I can do is sit thousands of miles away from those who I never wanted to leave. And that constant, nagging, feeling of injustice, how this should never have happened. How I should never have been made to leave the skies in which I’d seen stars when there were none to see. How I should never have left the streets, which despite their blankets of dust, had swept me to adventures I cherish as sacred memories now. How I should have stayed in that school, because never before had a school felt more like a home, a class more like a family. How I should have stayed to spend more time with the people who made each and every day better. It’s not fair.
I read somewhere that it’s not wrong at all to miss a place after having moved on, that the fact that you miss it so much strengthens the fact that it really was home. They also say that after a point you have to begin that arduous journey of moving on, opening your eyes to the new world in front of you, and keep the old one in a small chest in the safest corner of your heart. Still, all these words pass by me as mist, because longing is a feeling I’ve found is the hardest of all to put down. It’s near impossible to not walk down my new school’s hallways and not glance someone’s hair and be transported backwards in time. It’s hard for me to tell a joke to new faces and not crave for the same laughs it had elicited back home. It’s heart-crushing to see huddles of friends chatting the day away and being given the task of trying to include myself in their decade long relationships. It’s difficult to have a small part of you try helplessly to convince you that the wiser thing is to adapt, fast. And it’s even worse when the rest of you realizes that the voice is right, that it’s time to set emotions aside for a while, and focus on the road ahead.
So each day I wake up twice: once from my sleep, and then again from this daydream. I go to school. Do my work. Give my share of hellos, funny things, advice, and helping hands. I chat with the people who smile at me, I try and open up to them. And slowly, piece by piece, I understand that these strange faces might soon become friendly ones, that my moving on is not in vain. But each day when I have no work, when I’m sitting alone, I think back to yesterday. The yesterday that remains a persistent companion for me. The yesterday where I’d left my heart behind. The yesterday whose voice calls out to me when my thoughts are askew. For me, yesterday was four months ago.