Astitva

The midnight sky is a deep, calm shade of grey with soft patches of clouds, hinting that showers are just around the corner. Beneath this peaceful night sky, I find myself waiting eagerly for the rain to arrive. It feels good to be back in the city after such a long time. The car speeds along toward my destination, with the app estimating about 45 minutes remaining. Meanwhile, the gentle melodies of Mohammad Rafi fill the quiet night through the radio… Out of nowhere, ‘Purani Jeans’ comes to mind, bringing a nostalgic smile. I don’t know the name of the radio program or the station, but the midnight sky, the scent of rain, and the classic tunes take me back to my childhood, when drifting off to sleep listening to Purani Jeans on the radio was a familiar comfort.

Ten years ago, I never imagined I would be out on my city’s roads so late at night, especially given the strict upbringing I had and, of course, safety concerns. But today, as I get closer to home, I feel a deep sense of gratitude for these roads, for the city—it welcomes me like a warm, hearty hug when I arrive. From the moment I landed here, something shifted inside me. Despite everything, this city couldn’t always provide the warmth I longed for—the warmth, the freedom, and the hope that a distant, foreign city could offer. I used to think returning home would always be a chore, something I’d do to keep my parents happy. Maybe that’s why it took me six long years to come back. Now, with today’s technology, it feels like we’re never truly apart, even when we’re far away. It creates this illusion of closeness, even when we’re in different places. But the truth might be that we’re often caught in between, neither here nor there.

It’s been 12 years since I left the city, chasing bigger dreams and better opportunities. Though I built my life in bustling metropolises, I never really considered coming back home. It often became just a small, special place during Diwali. When I left the country to pursue even grander dreams, my humble, less developed hometown seemed so far away and almost forgotten. In the whirlwind of life, I somehow lost sight of who I was and where I truly belonged. It took me over a decade to realise I’d been living a borrowed life. Cities and rented accommodations could offer fleeting moments of peace, but then I would find myself back on a constant quest—searching for home, peace, contentment. After running from place to place, chasing dreams, building a so-called life, there came a moment when I did not know where to go, what to do, whom to find and what to say. And then, one phone call, the usual chore gave me a path. Talking to my family, to my parents, had become a chore for me. They don’t know who I am as a human being. They never did. Because I was always so guarded, I could never share what I felt with my family. But God had bestowed upon me the most beautiful friends one could pray for. So, I never felt the need to talk to my parents. But the absence of it, I could always feel. But as life progressed, all my friends got caught up in their lives and problems. While I listened to their issues, mine felt so small and childish. When someone is dealing with an ailment or in-laws’ issues or kids’ issues, my constant quest for peace and my anxious state did not feel like an issue I could share with them, as I did not know the reason for me to feel the way I did. What do I tell them? That I throw away every good thing God brings my way. Why? I don’t know. And I might never know.

One day, like any other, my mom called to check in—asking if I had eaten and how I was doing. Then she started talking about an upcoming event for Dad’s childhood best friend’s 35th anniversary. Suddenly, memories flooded back—Dheeraj Tauji, Kalpana Taiji, their grand haveli, the garden, the swings, the staircase, the attic, the rasoi, those long corridors, the courtyard, the shed, and the gaushala. I remembered holidays, vacations, picnics, and my friends—Rishika, Anshika, Richa, Angad, and so many other people. During my childhood days, this place acted as a refuge to me. the house was so vast that i would always secure a corner for myself with my book of poetry or a novel and get lost in my world and Dada and Dadi would make sure that I am always accompanied by the most delicious dishes. I hadn’t thought of them in ages, nor had I heard their names recently. Though I knew a little about their lives—some married, some working, some abroad—through casual chats with my parents, I never really delved deeper. They weren’t part of my social media world either. When I left the city and my home behind, I left everything connected to them. Why did I do that? Honestly, I wish I knew.

After the call, I impulsively decided to go back once, as if my home was calling out to me. I booked my flight secretly, feeling a bit scared. It’s been six years since I left the country, and I never thought that I would ever want to come back. Loneliness and chaos in my mind made me crave familiar places, known faces, and familiar words. Now, here I am, heading home under the midnight sky, softly listening to old melodies, reminiscing about the days I spent here—days when the rain would come and wash everything anew: my city, my roads, my trees, my home. ETA-5 minutes.