Edited by: Sahana Inuganti
It was peaceful when I woke up. I wasn’t woken up by my blaring alarm for a change. It was one of those rare days when there were no impending deadlines, and nothing was planned. I didn’t have a reason to get up early and curled into bed again. Two hours later, my sister walked into the room complaining and comparing me to kumbhakarna. Mom walked in minutes later and taunted me that I was living in a house, not a hotel. I couldn’t just eat, sleep and order around the entire day. It was one of her standard taunts and I hated it. I would have never imagined that living away from home for a month would make me miss it, let alone love it.
The doorbell rang, and I reluctantly got out of bed to answer the door. I didn’t want to, but staying in bed a bit longer wasn’t a wise decision. I was pushing my luck by not doing any work and everyone was bound to get annoyed, sooner or later. I opened the door and was greeted by my dad, sweaty and out of breath after his morning walk. He hugged me and as much as I appreciated the sentiment, I definitely did not approve of the timing. I think he did it purposefully so that I would bathe in the morning and not roam around in my nightsuit the entire day.
I rushed into the bathroom — shower caddy in one hand and clothes in the other. Upon entering it hit me, I wasn’t in the hostel — I was at home. I didn’t need any of this stuff nor did I have to share a communal bathroom with anyone. The realisation made me unexpectedly happy, I had never examined the washroom as carefully as I did that day. The sink was impeccably clean, all the hand towels were in bright colours and there was a huge tub— one that I hadn’t used for years, none of us had.
It seemed like the perfect time to use that, so I decided to indulge in a luxurious bubble bath complete with jasmine scented candles and ‘The Lumineers’ playing in the background. Five minutes later, a Spotify advertisement ruined the vibe followed by my sister banging on the door shouting that I was taking too much time. By the time I got out of the bath, I had mixed feelings. Regardless of whether I was staying at home or in the hostel, I needed to be mindful of everyone around me. I can’t do whatever I want in shared spaces, but at least what I do matters at home. In the hostel, I’m just someone else living on the same floor.
I wore my most old and tattered dress; it was faded but so comfortable and always smelled fresh — courtesy of a floral comforter. I was just so glad that I didn’t have to be dressed properly the entire time — I could wear mismatched co-ords and rubber slippers and not comb my hair. I could do all of this in the hostel too, but I don’t. Regardless of how much time I spend, I don’t think I’ll ever be as comfortable as I am at home, although the peace is debatable.
I walked into the drawing room and was taken aback to see a huge spread and a properly set table. All my favourites were there from bread pakora to pancakes, complete with orange juice. It was a feast, one that I could truly enjoy. There was no time limit, I had finished my assignments last night and slept for nine hours. But my friends weren’t around, and I missed them — I wanted to tell them everything and share all this food. I almost felt like I was betraying them by eating all these delicacies alone. If I had said this out loud to them they would have given me a piece of their mind over the phone and asked me to eat on their behalf. So, I did exactly that — ate and savoured every bite of it, for me and for the family I had left behind for a few days. I love this feeling and hate it too, but I am grateful for it and wouldn’t want it any other way.