The last time I moved out of my home, I was devastated. Because moving out of my home meant moving out of my comfort zone, my sense of familiarity and my immediate support system. Even though I had just married the man I wanted to and was ecstatic about beginning a life together with him, I was devastated about the move. And I recollect now how long it actually took me to get used to the new life, adjust to the new home, new family, new spaces, new smells and adapt myself to what would become the “new familiarity”.
The first few weeks were dotted with tearful outbursts. And the tears came unexpectedly, always taking me by surprise. The smallest things made me cry – seeing a mother buying her weekly stock of veggies would remind me of my mother. Random domestic chores being done around the house reminded me of how differently they were done at my home. Pictures of family and home took me back in my mind. Adjusting to a whole new cuisine and learning that I would have to eat the same day after day made me feel helpless and ache for home cooked food. I cried myself to sleep, cried when I woke up and cried sporadically during the course of many nights, days and time in between. But that too passed over.
After that, I thought I was ready to take on the world. If I had adjusted to that move, I told myself, I could move anywhere in the world and be able to do it with ease. Right? Wrong.
It’s been 3 weeks since we moved to Goa. The day we drove out of Bangalore, I cried. But not because I was devastated. I cried because of the overwhelming feeling of once again being wrenched out of my comfort zone and sense of security, and being placed in complete newness. The people, the neighborhood, the surroundings, the completely non furnished home, living out of boxes and suitcases, not having chai when we woke up, not having company during the entire day, spending my days figuring out the nearest market, the ideal plastic store, the steel store, milkman, newspaper wallah, car cleaner, maid…you get the idea.
So I guess what really brought tears to my eyes on both occasions was not so much a feeling of sadness. Because in both situations, I was anything but sad. I was in fact just distraught with adjusting to the newness that had suddenly gripped me. This time however, has been a far more difficult, painful and unsettling move. Moving home after marriage was a smooth sail compared to moving to Goa. And this time round it has been more than a physical separation of sorts. It feels more like an emotional and psychological transition from one phase of life into another.
I’ve discovered something about myself in the process. I’m far more attached and dependent on people, everyday things, habits, routine and all things that make me comfortable, than I imagined. Therefore, separating myself from one space of security and moving to another causes me far more angst and turmoil than an average person. I see VC, I see others in his office whom I’ve met, and it seems like they’ve just packed up, moved, set shop, and commenced life exactly where they left off.
So my science of separation I guess rests in the fact that I’m so much about the heart, and the connections it makes with all the things that are a part of my life. My family, friends, work, the places I frequent, the things I do on a daily basis. So in the process of moving, its all those things that I miss. It’s the connections I have with them, and the distance that’s so hard to come to terms with. And that’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get over. I will always miss those special few things that are close to my heart and give my life meaning and fulfillment.
I miss the parents. Both sets. I miss Ravi and Adeet because I wish they were closer and could see me do all the things I am doing now, because neither I nor they imagined I’d ever manage. I miss mom and dad because of the life they quietly bring to the home, without which everything seems to lifeless and quiet.
I miss Niyu. Even though we’ve lived apart for so long, I miss her now more than ever.
I miss Harsh and his antics. I miss his paintings.
I miss Simran for her kind and comforting presence. I miss Romi for the laughs we share at dinnertime.
I miss James and our peaceful faff sessions. And our banter. I miss loafing. And loffing.
I miss Bistro and the sandwiches. I miss Koshys and the cutlets. I miss the beer.
I miss Tindoo and my work. In fact I miss waking up every morning knowing that I have a fixed routine of things to do, and that mundane drive to that familiar office, that cubicle, only to commence that very same set of tasks.
I miss my bed. My bedside table and the lamp I had there.
I miss my spacious cupboard.
I miss the ease with which I could communicate with strangers in my city.
I miss the familiarity of the streets.
I miss the numerous places I could go to even by myself.
I miss having someone or the other to spend my time with. I miss never having to feel lonely.
I miss pretty much everything about my life before I came to Goa. But on a peaceful evening, spending time together on our 4 neatly piled mattresses, in front of the TV, where we don’t even have to really talk to “be together”, I feel a sense of contentment that makes me never want to go back, and only makes me want to move on.