A strange kind of melancholy overcomes a family as a young person leaves home for greener avenues

It’s the morning of my departure. My elder sister just went home to her husband. I’m scheduled to leave at night. I start my first ‘real’ job tomorrow. I take a deep breath and head out, where mum greets me with instant noodles, as I’ve decided to discontinue eating for today. Today’s lunch will be the first in many months, a welcome change from my fruit diet.

It’s the afternoon of my departure, and mom is visibly upset. She has barely spoken all day, and I don’t have the necessary tools to break the silence. These are times when I wish my extroverted sister were present. Somehow, her heading home has created an eerie silence in the house. Dad walks into my room as I’m fiddling with my phone and lies down beside me, asking me when my flight is. It takes him a couple of minutes to get comfortable, as he tries giving me ‘the talk’. He reminds me that they’re there for me whenever I need them. He talks to me about the new world that I’m entering — the responsible, adult world. I nod and pick up the phone up again, trying hard not to display any emotion.

A gap to bridge

Mom and I sit beside each other and read, both needing each other’s presence, yet unable to bridge the gap. The silence is deafening. I steal occasional glances at her, as she continues to bury herself in her book, trying hard not to let her emotions show. I keep reading, continuing to suppress every single emotion I’ve been feeling; not that I haven’t done that before.

It’s evening by the time we speak to each other about this. “What will I do when you’re gone?” mom asks. I reply with a joke, trying to act foolish to lighten the mood. I’m thinking of joking about how she won’t need to restock the cashew nuts every three days now that I’m not home anymore, but decide against it. I fool around for a while and then go into my room to change. My PlayStation is already in its box, as are my books. My clothes will travel with me.

I look at my room once more. No mess of wires in the corner of the bed. No gadgets strewn all over it. This has been my room for over a decade, ever since we moved into this house. Now I’ll have my own place. No more dorm rooms. I’ll be entering the world of ‘adulting.’ I change into my new clothes and head out.

The drive to the airport is in absolute silence. No one speaks a word as my parents drive me. As we hug our goodbyes, mom breaks down and cries. I hug her tighter, reminding her that I’ll see her in a month, and then again, every couple of months. She pretends to understand, and turns away.

My father and I are not good at handling these emotions. Both of us stand and try our best to console her. She eventually waves me away, and asks me to go in.

Strange melancholy

I’ve left home too many times for many things to be feeling as sad as I am. I don’t understand this strange melancholy, especially considering that this is exactly what I wanted from life. This kickstarts my career and helps me move forward in life. Why, then, do I want to rush back out, get into the car and drive back home?

Many Indian weddings have a vidai ceremony, where the daughter is said to leave her home for her husband’s home. I remember not crying during my sister’s vidai, because for me, she had left home many years before that. Today, I stand at the precipice of my house, having broken into tears every night for the past few days.

I sit at the boarding gate, 30 minutes to the scheduled departure of the flight. It’s the last call for my name. I’m still torn between turning back and rushing to the comfort of my home, and moving forward to start my new life — a life of ‘independence’. It took me 24 years, but now I have the scissors in my hand. Do I dare to cut the umbilical cord?

I dare.

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