It's almost Diwali time. Like everyone, I've been waiting for this since the beginning of October — every day making new plans in my head about what all I'll do when I go back home. I haven't picked up a notebook in a week now. It's that kind of feeling that doesn't let you study — the feeling of going home.
As the day of departure comes closer, you start feeling that magical tickle in your ribs, that strange energy in your body, that urge to just fast-forward time to the moment you've reached home.
This feeling of going back disrupts the whole routine. Every now and then, you catch yourself daydreaming about the train that'll take you back. You keep pushing every task to after you return, because all you want right now is to leave. It's such a surreal joy — knowing that in a few days you'll be around your family again, with mumma cooking something special, while you narrate every little college story from the past two months and everyone listens like it's a movie.
October truly is the best month of the year — especially for people who live far from home.
Today is the 17th of October. Diwali falls on the 21st, if I'm not mistaken. My whole hostel is empty. Locks on every door, except mine. The place that's always noisy and chaotic feels suddenly numb. On normal days, I often wish for peace and quiet from all the noise my friends make — and today, when I finally have it, it's not what I want.
This quietness isn't peace. It's something else. Something heavy, and strangely loud. This quietness is too much for me. Lol.
You might be thinking that I'm not going home this Diwali, since I'm the only one left. Don't worry, I am. I just don't know when or how. Lol.
Being the last one to leave the hostel has both pros and cons. On one hand, you get to say goodbye to everyone, drop them off at the station, wave, smile, and feel that warmth of parting. On the other hand, when it's your turn to go, there's no one left to wave you goodbye. But it's fine. Someone has to be the last one — it's fine if it's me this time. I actually felt good wishing everyone a happy journey. I really did.
But this chapter isn't about being the last one to leave or the unconfirmed train ticket. It's about something bigger.
It's about adulting.
Like this whole book, it's about me trying to figure out what growing up really means — as I stand on the doorway of it, leaving my teenage years behind. And this Diwali gave me a new definition of it.
I spent 19 years at home, surrounded by family. Now I'm in college, 900 kilometers away. Last night, while walking back to my room after dropping a friend off at the colony gate, a thought hit me.
I'm in college now. I'll go home for eight days, then I'll return. This process — of leaving and returning — will continue for four years. Then, hopefully, I'll get a good job. And again, I'll go home only during holidays, maybe for 10–15 days a year. My family lives in Gorakhpur — not exactly an IT hub — so my job will probably be somewhere in Delhi or NCR.
Same for my sisters too. They'll be here in Delhi, working, visiting home for a few days a year. And the thought that this cycle might go on for an indefinite period — with no real solution — just… blew my mind.
Is this the new normal? Is this how I'll live the rest of my life?
I know some of you might think I'm overreacting, that this is just how life is. But still, it's hard to digest.
No matter how much I try to stay in the present, nostalgia always finds its way back. It hits me hard — those evenings when all five of us were home, laughing, watching daily soaps with mumma, waiting for papa to bring something good to eat. How I used to play cricket in the streets with my friends until the lights came on.
I hate it when my mind unwillingly rewinds to those days. I don't want to rewatch those memories when I know I can't live them again.
It's strange — the more I grow, the farther home feels, even when it's just a journey away.
Maybe growing up isn't about finding new places — it's about learning to live with the distance between the old ones.
In this mild cold of approaching winter, I've understood another layer of what adulting means.
Adulting isn't just about career, growth, love, heartbreak, betrayal, success, or failure. It's also about distances — the ones that quietly stretch between you and the people you love.
The distance from your home. From your family.
Adulting is realizing that your home has slowly turned from a place you live in to a place you visit.
Adjusting to that truth — this quiet, heartbreaking normal — that's adulting too.