Homesickness

    The summer is perhaps the time that all college students (myself included) look forward to all year. It is the time we go home, the time we can temporarily forget the challenges of academics and the rigors of college – and just be kids again.

I get about a month for summer break, and it’s a month I waste in pursuit of happiness and a vague sense of having “accomplished” something – a truly enjoyable pursuit, and one I recommend everyone try out.

This summer, I alternated between cooking my ageing GTX 1050 and cooking the clutch of Dad’s 20 year old Bajaj bike, interspersed by periods of cooking my other laptop’s RTX 3050Ti and chewing through the free trials offered by cloud providers. It was a heady mix of frustration, triumph and petrol – just the way I like it.

One of the chores I have at home during vacations is to source milk for the day. I choose to do this by taking out our old Indica for a spin, heading to the second-closest supermarket, and picking out the milk packets in much the same way a sommelier would pick out wines.

A key part of this ritual is checking the expiry date of the milk – after all, one packet needs to be reserved for the next day’s early morning tea.. and milk that’s gone off would not be cricket.

The dates on the milk packets would relentlessly tick forward, and for the most part of the month – they remain just dates of expiry.

It’s when the dates tick closer to the end of June, and announce, quietly, the beginning of July, that these dates begin to hold a special significance.

Homesickness is an oft-used term, perhaps overused. It’s bandied about often – and loudly, from inane matters like the mess dal having too much oil, or to more “serious” matters like the boredom induced by washing another round of underclothes. It’s used as an excuse for sleeping in, and for sleeping late. In short – it’s the perennial constant of life away from home, and it’s something I have, fortunately, rarely suffered from.

However, homesickness does have a funny way of getting to me.

It starts when I see the milk packet’s expiry date says 1 July – and I am reminded with a jolt that my train to college is on the 7th.

It pings when I see the college WhatsApp groups fill with the “looking for cab-sharing partners” messages.

It stings when I take out that fancy outfit for a dinner in town, and hang it back up – it suddenly strikes me that I’m not gonna wear this outfit for a while.

It aches when Mom begins the subtle rituals of packing – asking me to track down my errant socks, reminding me to put my shoes in the sun for airing, and to wipe down my suitcases.

It pains when Mom and Dad make plans for the weekend after I reach college – plans not to go for a movie, or to visit someplace – but ordinary plans like scheduling a doctor’s appointment, or booking a service for our Nexon, or even a plan to give the curtains to the dry-cleaners.

And then, it burns when I put the leftovers from my favourite dish into the fridge – and the realization that I won’t be home to finish it whips through my mind.

The final straw on the camel’s back – as they say – is the expiry date on the packet of milk that I have gone out to buy – in a desperate attempt to maintain my routine, and deny the fact that the date is 7 July and I am going back to college today – quietly saying “Expiry: 8 July”.
Because it isn’t just the milk that expires on the 8th – it’s my vacation, and I have to head back to college and face the realities of life once more – and that’s when I get homesick.
Homesick not for home – the four brick walls – but for what the word encompasses.

There is a quote I read on an Internet forum about death (I know, I know, that’s morbid and completely overkill to compare death and going to university 1200km away to study something you like and enjoy) that goes: “I hope death is like being carried to your bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room.”

As morbid as it is, this quote (once you swap death with going to college) sums up what homesickness is like for me. 

I can (and do) call my parents up on WhatsApp, or Google Meet. I can (and do) call my Mom and just stay on the line while I study and she completes her work. But – as much as technology bridges the gap between my room and home, the fact remains that I am, in that moment, the child who fell asleep on the couch and was taken away to the bedroom. I can hear the laughter, yes – but it’s dulled by the distance, and never quite the same.

And the expiry date on the milk packets tick on, unstoppable, until they read October, and it’s time for me to go home again and rejoin the family party.