“The past is never where you think you left it.”
— Katherine Anne Porter
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The sky in Mumbai wasn’t the kind she knew. Back home, the evenings were quieter — gentler somehow. Here, the sky burned orange, and the air smelled like metal and exhaustion.
Sana crossed the street near Andheri station, the noise crawling under her skin. This wasn’t what she pictured when she said goodbye to her parents two months ago. They had hugged her at the platform, her mother’s dupatta smelling like detergent and warmth.
Now, even that felt like a lifetime ago.
She had found a tiny flat that barely held her suitcase and thoughts. There was a window, though — that was her one comfort. Every night, she sat beside it and watched the city move, as if by watching it, she might learn how to be part of it.
But the truth was, she hadn’t felt like herself since she arrived.
She missed her father’s morning radio playing old Hindi songs. She missed the quiet presence of her mother folding laundry in the afternoon sun. She missed the road near her school where she and her friends used to walk, laughing over nothing.
And she missed him.
Even now, sometimes, her fingers hovered over his number. She never dialed.
They had planned things once — little things. Like eating roadside pav bhaji at Juhu, or buying matching mugs for a future they never reached. When he left, he didn’t say much. Just said he couldn’t do this anymore. Maybe it was distance. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was just life being cruel in the way it often is.
He didn’t text when she moved here. Didn’t ask how she was settling in. She told herself she didn’t expect him to. But still.
Sometimes, late at night, when the street below went quiet and the city exhaled, she imagined him sitting beside her.
“You okay?” he’d ask, in that voice she used to trust.
She never replied, even in her head.
Because no — she wasn’t.
Every morning, she got up, made tea in silence, and left for work. She walked fast, not to save time, but to avoid thinking. Her face had learned how to smile just enough so that no one asked questions.
On Sundays, when the office was shut, it hit her hardest.
She once found herself sitting on the floor with an old kurti pressed to her face because it smelled faintly of her home — of her old life. She didn’t cry. The tears didn’t come anymore. They had dried up somewhere between his silence and the city’s noise.
She never told anyone about the ache. Not her parents. Not her colleagues. She’d mastered the art of saying “I’m good” with just enough conviction to avoid concern.
But inside, she missed being known. Not for her name, or the work she did — but in the way someone knows the reason you fall quiet after a joke, or why you stare too long at bus stops.
She missed being someone’s home.
One Thursday, as she sat alone in the office pantry, Elena, a girl from HR, walked in holding two mugs. She paused, studying Sana’s tired eyes.
“Coffee?” she offered gently.
Sana nodded, grateful.
They sat in silence until Elena said, “I don’t think I’ve ever stopped missing my home either. I’m from Shillong. Came here two years ago.”
Sana looked up. “Does it get better?”
Elena gave a slow smile. “No. But you learn to carry it without spilling everywhere.”
Sana laughed quietly. It was the first time in days.
“I miss my mom’s food the most,” Elena added. “And the silence. Do you?”
“Every second,” Sana said. “Sometimes I think I hear the sound of his voice — the one I left behind.”
Elena’s smile softened. “A boy?”
Sana didn’t reply, but the answer hung in the air like perfume.
One night, the power cut out. The room went dark. The fan stopped spinning. Mumbai was still alive outside, glowing in scattered gold and red.
Sana sat on her mattress and whispered, “I want to go home.”
The words filled the room like smoke.
She didn’t mean just the place. She meant the feeling. The way her heart used to rest easier. The way food used to taste when someone cooked it for you. The way love once felt like a warm blanket and not a wound you hide under your clothes.
But she stayed.
Because sometimes, even when your heart is somewhere else, your body stays. And you learn to carry the weight of that choice.
She didn’t know when this city would stop feeling like exile.
She just knew that tomorrow she would wake up, make her tea, and try again.
And maybe — just maybe — that was enough.
React
