Going
(I'm rewriting this story and adding new scenes.)
Naina’s POV
I stood in the centre of my room, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips as tears blurred my vision. This room wasn’t just four walls—it was my childhood, my laughter, my late-night dreams, and the safest place I had ever known.
And today, I was leaving it all behind.
Not just this room. Not just this house. Not even just this city. I was leaving my country.
It isn’t easy to pack twenty-one years of life into two bags in two short days. How do you fold your memories, your secrets, and your identity into a suitcase? I kept reminding myself—this is for my dreams. This is for the promise I made.
Still… a part of me wanted to cancel everything, curl into this bed, and never let go.
But no. Dreams don’t wait. To achieve them, I must walk away.
They say:
“Kuch paane ke liye kuch khona padhta hai.”
(To gain something, you must lose something.)
And today, I was losing everything; everything was safe.
I don’t know why, but a strange heaviness filled me—as if today really was my last day in this room.
---
“Nainaaa! Jana hai ki nahi? Airport Jane ke liye late ho raha hai!” Maa’s voice cut through my thoughts.
(‘Naina! Are you coming or not? We’re getting late for the airport!
“Haan Maa, bas 5 minutes.”
(Yes, Mom, just 5 minutes.)
“Thik hai, jaldi aaja. Kahin room dekhte-dekhte so mat jana.”
(Okay, come quickly. Don’t fall asleep staring at your room.)
I let out a soft laugh, rolling my eyes. Typical Maa.
My gaze shifted toward my little temple in the corner. I had built it with my own hands—every flower carving, every diya placed with love. Slowly, I walked to it and stood with folded hands, closing my eyes.
“Hey God,” I whispered, “I’m going to start a journey in a new land… Everything will be strange—new people, new culture, new challenges. Please give me strength, not just to face problems, but to solve them.
And please… protect Maa and Papa. They’re hiding it well, but I can see their sadness. I don’t want them to suffer when I’m gone. But I must go; otherwise, I’ll never fulfil my promise.”
My throat tightened. Just then—
“Naina!” This time, both Maa and Papa called together.
“I’m coming!” I called back, quickly picking up the small idol of Ganesh Ji and pressing it to my heart.
With one last look at the room that held my entire childhood, I stepped out.
---
The hall was crowded. My friends, cousins, aunts, and uncles all stood waiting for me. The moment I appeared, they surrounded me—hugging me, blessing me, teasing me.
“Don’t forget us after becoming a big woman in New York!” one of my cousins laughed, pinching my cheek.
“Arrey, uske liye toh pehle return ticket bhi le aati,” another teased.
(She should’ve bought a return ticket too, just in case.)
Their laughter only made my chest heavier. I forced a smile, hugging them all.
“Let’s go. We’re getting late.” Papa’s voice came, firm but low.
I nodded and followed him out after one last round of goodbyes.
As the car pulled away, everyone waved. “Bye, Niu!” they shouted—using my childhood nickname. I waved back, watching until their figures blurred and the house slowly disappeared.
Why does it feel like I’ll never see this house again?
“Stop it, Naina,” I scolded myself. “Enjoy the journey.”
---
The airport was cold, sterile, and buzzing with noise, yet I felt oddly detached. All I could see were Maa and Papa, standing in front of me, pretending to be strong.
That hurt more than anything—their silence, their masks.
“Main ja rahi hoon,” I said softly.
(I’m leaving.)
They only hummed in reply.
“Bas, hmm?” I snapped, my voice trembling. “Jab main sirf 15 minutes door jaati hoon, tabhi aap kitni baatein karte ho—phone saath rakho, kisi se baat mat karna, khana time pe khana, so jao jaldi. Aur ab, jab main aapse itni door jaa rahi hoon, toh aap dono kuch nahi keh rahe ho?”
(Just hmm? Nothing else? When I go only 15 minutes away, you say a thousand things—keep the phone, don’t talk to strangers, eat on time, sleep early. And now, when I’m going so far, you say nothing?)
Maa broke instantly, crushing me into her arms, crying into my shoulder.
“Khyal rakhna… reach safely, call us, don’t skip meals, don’t trust strangers…” She poured out everything she had been holding in.
Normally, Papa would scold her, saying, “Stop worrying. Our daughter is strong; she can take care of herself.”
But today, he said nothing.
His silence was louder than words.
A father’s tears… they cut deeper than a mother’s. Because fathers never show them. Society has tied them in chains with that nonsense rule—“men don’t cry.” What rubbish! I wanted to punch whoever made that rule. Men feel. Fathers hurt. Why shouldn’t they cry?
I swallowed hard and stepped toward Papa. Slowly, I hugged him. At first, his arms stayed stiff, but then, two trembling hands rested on my back.
After what felt like forever, he whispered, “Take care of yourself.”
Those four words broke me. I knew how much strength it took him to say them without falling apart.
---
After their blessings, I forced myself to walk away, even as my legs felt heavy like stone.
I turned back once—Maa holding Papa’s arm tightly, her eyes swollen, his face pale but still strong. They didn’t wave; they just stood there, rooted, as if afraid that waving would make me disappear.
I wanted to run back, hug them, and never let go. But I didn’t.
Instead, I tightened my grip on my bags and walked forward.
Check-in. Security. Boarding pass. Every step felt mechanical, like I was moving in a dream.
Finally, I sat in my seat on the plane. The world outside the small oval window looked blurry as tears gathered in my eyes again.
“This is it, Naina,” I whispered to myself. “Your new beginning.”
Exhaustion hit me like a wave. As the engines roared, I closed my eyes—and sleep took me into its arms.
But even in my dreams, I could still see Maa’s tears and feel Papa’s trembling hands on my back.
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