The Art of Leaving

Throughout my life, I have seen people celebrating new beginnings.

We celebrate when someone first goes to school, or a college or starts a new career or gets into a new relationship.

We plan everything at the start. We get excited about the things that are yet to come.

First day of school? What bag should I take? Which color of water bottle should I carry?

First day of college? What should I wear that would make me look nice? Should I do my hair this way or that way?

A new relationship? Where should I take her today for dinner? What should I give him on his birthday?

And like that, we plan and plan.

I remember the first day of my school very vividly. White shirt nicely tucked in green half pants, shiny black shoes. I was nervous and happy at the same time. I remember the proud look on my parents face.

Or the day when I started my Master’s. I was going to live away from home for the first time. So my parents planned everything. Bought new clothes, a new bag, and everything else I thought I’d need. I remember how excited I was to finally live a dream, make new friends, and have new experiences.

But amidst all these new beginnings, I wonder, nobody really made me ready for the endings.

I remember the day, my last day at school. It was a rainy Tuesday. Our headmaster was giving a last lecture on how we should carry the legacy of our school.

We all stood there, sad, actually sad. We were standing on the very ground where we played for ten years. It had literally seen me coming to full pants from half pants.

The corridor, the classrooms, the uncle in the canteen, this was the last time we were seeing as students of the school.

And I could not really process the feeling at that time.

I also remember very recently when I was leaving my university.

The hostel room that took me so much time to turn into a home, I had to leave it.

When I was packing, I had this strange feeling. When I was done, I looked around the empty room, one last time.

The walls were bare.

The cupboard that had been overflowing a day earlier stood open.

I closed the door, handed over the key, and walked away without looking back.

Then, of course, I looked back.

I had to leave behind the knocks on my door from friends saying, “Come to the mess. You’ll be late for class.”

I was leaving the ground where I took walks, laid on grass to see stars. I was leaving the lane that is full of memories.

Again I had the same feeling. The ache, the sadness. Something I was not quite able to process.