The beginning of an unseen ruin
Part 1
There's a certain smell to a new city not the romantic fragrance they write about in travel magazines, but something raw. And there's a heaviness to arriving in a city where no one knows your name. When I arrived in Bangalore, I carried more than my bags; I carried the naive idea that life could somehow reset itself simply because the surroundings had changed. I didn't know something was waiting for me here.
Bangalore greeted me with a kind of restless warmth. The streets were framed by flowering trees, their petals on road that carried both life and neglect and yesterday's rainwater pooling in small patches. Auto-rickshaws weaved through the traffic like yellow sparks, the driver's faces unreadable, worn by the weight of thousand short journeys. When I stepped out of the cab, I took a moment to look around. The buildings all looked strangely alike - faded pastels that might have been cheerful once but now seemed tired, as if they'd been standing there too long, waiting for something to change.
The PG was tucked inside a lane so narrow I felt like I'd get lost if I turned around twice. It looked simple in the day light but I knew the shadows would make it feel like another world at night. I dragged my bag to the gate which creaked like it had something to say about me moving in. A woman stood at the entrance, her hair tied back with oil slicked precision, her gaze scanning me as though I was another passing face she didn't need to remember. She pressed the keys into my hand without a smile, without a single word of warmth. And just like that, I remember standing there for a moment, thinking, ‘So this is it. This is where it all begins’.
The room smelled of old curtains and rain. It wasn't the kind of smell that fades once you open the window. It was the smell of a place that had housed too many different lives, where laughter and sorrow had both left stains no mops could erase. I was the first to move in. The room was small and simple - three beds neatly pushed against the wall and a single shelf waiting to be filled with belongings. I unpacked slowly, more as a way to distract myself from the sinking realisation that nothing had changed. I had thought this would feel like freedom - a new city, new people, new chances - but instead, I felt like I had simply carried the same version of myself to a different address (I didn’t know then how much this place would change me).
The next morning, I walked to work. It was fifteen minutes from the PG, a straight road that cut through small shops, and one cafe that looked painfully pretty, as if it belonged to someone else's life. I wanted to step inside but something stopped me. A small boy stood near the corner, his hands clutching bunches of flowers tied with bright red thread, calling out softly. I felt disconnected and I wondered if anyone noticed how strange it felt, or if it was only me, walking and thinking that something invisible was missing. Work was nothing like I had imagined. I thought it would feel like a step toward something meaningful. I had expected more. But what I found was just a small, plain block of a building, dull and unremarkable. The corridors were empty and quiet, the kind of silence that presses down on you and makes everything feel smaller. There were two friends I made there, if I could call them friends.
There was my boyfriend, too. He was far away, across the states, living his life as if distance were nothing but a number. He believed we were fine, maybe even perfect. But I- I couldn't tell him that something was wrong, because I couldn't name what was wrong. There was this void, this invisible distance that felt heavier than any kilometre. At night, I would look at his name on my phone screen, the tiny green dot that meant he was online, and I'd wonder if I should say something. But what could I say? That I felt...missing? That even when I talk to him, there was a silence in my heart that I couldn't shake? He wouldn't understand. He'd tell me I was overthinking, and maybe I was. But that didn't make the ache any smaller.
Some evenings, I would sit by the window of my room, looking at the narrow lane outside. I missed home, my cats, the way they would curl up on my lap like tiny warm secrets. I missed my old life, even though I used to complain about it. But life wasn't bad. That was the strangest part - it wasn't bad. It was just...nothing. Every day was the same. Wake up. Work. Eat. Walk home. Talk. Sleep. Repeat. I kept waiting for something to happen - something exciting, something that would tell me I was alive.
And I did not know then, as I sat there, staring at the night outside my window, that something was waiting for me. Something that would tear open my quiet, something that would change me in ways I didn't yet have the language to fear.
