There is no denying that homesickness is real. But even though it lurks, it does so, wearing different masks.
For when I was in boarding school, it mostly broke loose when my tummy grumbled or on still, bright, weekend afternoons, when you could free your thoughts and imagine what home would be like.
But never when the seniors ragged or the teachers scolded. Never when the sports injuries bled all day long. That was just the nature of the beast.
Now, in a foreign culture, much like a boarding school, only worse at times but never better, the sickness brandishes an uglier mask. Yes, the tummy's been grumbling for Ma’s food, the thoughts trail on most afternoons, but having lived through that before, what troubles most is the lack of an anchor.
The alien sports culture, the strange accents, the school or college stories that office colleagues laugh at, to which I can’t relate.
No one to talk to about cricket victories, or break into hinglish every second minute or to laugh at exaggerated stories about that road trip to Dharamshala/Goa. No one to joke about how we survived college or floundered school rules that seem trivial now but made us heroes then.
I miss the raucous parties, the huge deal a simple event such as a rock show was, the hunting for food late at night, tons of people no matter what.
Booked tickets for Delhi. As you can see, can’t wait.