May has somehow become the month of moving for me and my family. Four years back, we packed our life into little carton boxes and shifted to Noida.
As someone who moved constantly during childhood and never really had permanent memories of “home,” leaving Mumbai ,officially my first real home..... was hard. Not just hard, but traumatic in some ways. Mumbai wasn’t just a city for me; it was where I belonged, or at least I thought I did. Packing away memories of our early married years, my daughter’s childhood, and pieces of a life we had built there felt like leaving parts of myself behind.
Leaving my bhabhi , who is far more than family, almost a friend, philosopher, and guide....hurt deeply. Leaving behind the helps who had quietly become my support system felt equally harsh. I refused to accept Noida for the first year and treated her almost with disdain.
Every time I travelled back to Mumbai for work, it felt like I could breathe again. But slowly, somewhere along the way, Noida grew on me. I began to love the wide roads, the lack of traffic, the fact that my parents were suddenly so close, and the soft gulabi sardi that North India brings. So when my husband decided we should finally buy a permanent place of our own, despite my better judgment, I agreed.
We bought a house and turned it into a home. We spent endless time building it, dreaming through it, shaping every little corner of it. And boy we did build a beautiful home, one that I now have to leave behind again, while rebuilding life not just for myself but for my daughter too.
Maybe that is the part that hurts the most. I always wanted to give my child the stable childhood I never had.. the comfort of growing up with the same friends, the same community, same school, the same sense of belonging. But once again, I have to pack all of that into those hideous carton boxes and leave.
Last night, surrounded by packed boxes again, I looked out at the beautiful skyline outside my window and realized I always thought I had more time. More time to admire the view. More time to sit in the little library I built so painstakingly and watch sunlight pour into it. More time to simply belong.
Maybe that’s the tragedy of moving so much.... by the time a place finally starts feeling like home, it’s already time to leave. Sometimes I surprise myself with my own ability to adapt, but I wonder if adaptation is both my greatest strength and my quietest grief.
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