When it comes to writing, I take full liberty in saying whatever needs to be said. After a long time, I decided to write something from the heart—something that doesn’t require facts and statistics from Google. My thoughts are always cluttered, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think at all. I think all the time. In fact, there’s not a single day when I don’t think about writing something—anything at all—but I don’t, even when I know I can. And I know it doesn’t affect anyone but me. In my mind, I like to think of my imaginary readers who must be wondering why I haven’t been posting lately.
The reason I feel so distant from writing, or doing anything creative for that matter, is that adulting has been hard. And that too, while being far away from home, all alone, having to figure out everything myself. I have to take care of myself, and be careful not to get sick—or else I’ll have to go to the doctor and talk (a nightmare for an introvert). I have to buy groceries. I have to survive the extreme heat when all I’ve ever known is cold and snow (with a little sunlight too). And all the while, I have to maintain decent attendance at university. Of course, I am always connected to friends, family, and teachers virtually, but the distance is still there, and it is quite apparent. Everything has changed, and I can’t get used to it—probably because my college environment was so comforting that I never prepared myself for the future, not mentally, not physically.
I had the best teachers, the best friends, and the best juniors—people who knew me, who understood my insecurities and made sure I always felt at ease. And if I ever had a bad day at college (which never really happened except for that one special occasion when I got yelled at by my principal in front of a huge audience), I could always come back home and yell at my family and sisters. With them, I laughed about every stupid thing I did. Now, if I have a bad day, I come back, and it’s just me. If I do something incredible (which hardly happens here), I come back to nothing.
When people ask if I am homesick, I tell them I am, but more than that, I am roomsick. Back home, whenever I had an idea for writing something new, I would immediately run off to my room and stay there for hours until I came up with at least a poem. But now, I don’t have that privilege—to lie lazily in my room, to let my thoughts take shape freely. Of course, I have met some amazing people here, but those I’ve left behind are missed at every point of my day.
If I see a funny meme on Instagram, I can’t laugh loudly because my roommates will think I’m crazy. I always have to be on guard, and careful about what I say and do. And the worst part? I have to start all over again. I have to learn everything from scratch, get used to food I’ve never even seen before, wake up for Sehri and eat under a table lamp, adjust to whatever I get at Iftari, not complain about the food, and not demand my favourite dessert. I have to make amends to my lifestyle. I have to introduce myself to people again. It’s like relearning the alphabet—and I was always the slow one.
No one talks about how hard these changes are for introverts like me—who can’t communicate their feelings, who can’t laugh with others, and who certainly can’t console someone who is crying. If I get into a cab, it takes me at least half the journey to muster up the courage to ask how much I have to pay. And if the driver says a hundred for a ride that I know is worth twenty, I won’t argue. I’ll just give him the hundred, even if I don’t have it. If I go shopping (which is a nightmare), I can’t ask the shopkeeper for what I’m looking for. I feel bad for him because he has to put in all the effort to figure out what I need. And even when he doesn’t understand, there’s a high chance I’ll just buy what he thinks I need instead of what I actually came for. If someone compliments me, I don’t know how to respond, so I just smile awkwardly. If someone asks for something, I can’t say no—even when I want to.
The list could go on, but I want to keep it short.
The purpose of writing this is to console myself—and to tell people the things no one tells us when we leave everything behind in our hometowns and move to a busy city. No one tells us that as we get closer to adulthood, things start losing meaning. Nothing interests us anymore. The complexities of the future trap us in a never-ending loop, and there are only a few moments when we are truly happy. But even in those moments, we worry that this happiness is temporary.
There’s never that sense of fulfilment. We never feel accomplished—even when we do good things, even when we get into the college of our dreams, even when we read things we love, even when we have earned every bit of happiness. There’s always a burden—this constant fear that if you laugh too much, you’ll have to pay a price for it. The innocence of childhood is gone, the tantrums of teenage years are gone, and those little wishes we had in childhood—wishes we thought we’d accomplish by the time we were thirty—are long gone too. Now, reaching thirty feels like a marathon, and we already know we’ll be too tired by then.
For example, I always had this dream of travelling the world when I got older. Now that I have travelled a little—just 800 miles away from home—I don’t even want to leave my bed. I feel too tired to go for a walk. Maybe it’s because, as I mentioned earlier, there aren’t many fun things I know how to do anymore.
Writing used to be my only escape, my panacea. But slowly, I feel like I am too tired to do that too. I don’t study as hard as I ought to, and the guilt is killing me. So, to escape these thoughts, I just scroll through Instagram or watch movies. Because while I’m doing that, I don’t have to think. It has become a coping mechanism, a kind of escapism. And people think I’m addicted to my phone. I’m not addicted—it’s just that when I feel left out when I don’t know how to add to an already beautiful conversation, when I don’t know how to greet people, I open my phone and scroll. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the kindness people show me here. I appreciate every bit of it.
Once, I was complaining about an incident to my friend, and she said, “These experiences are worth experiencing.” So now, whenever I find myself caught in these situations, I remind myself: this is worth experiencing.
Moving to a new city has certainly taken a toll on me, but I am still grateful that I had the courage to leave the comforts of home to achieve something great. I know that greatness is far from reality, but it’s better to complain about it here while striving for it than to complain about it at home while eating a delicious meal.
I love Kashmir. Nothing can beat its beauty, its calmness, its culture, its traditions. But I also love the person I am becoming in Delhi. I know this person is lazier, but she is tough too. She is learning. She is making her way in the world. Kashmir is home. But now, I am sort of an immigrant—and immigrants make a home wherever they go.
The writer is pursuing a Masters in English Literature at Jamia Milia Islamia New-Delhi
Shafiya Showkat
sh***********@***il.com