Dear Mom,

I’ve been thinking about you lately. Ever since the people beside me made loud and unavoidable screeches which interrupted my sleep. I want to tell you how my current life is. Now you’d say that we video chatted just hours ago, but there are some things I can only manage to say through a keyboard. God, whom am I explainig to when you already know this.

Life’s tough here. The nights pass wondering when was the last time I slept peacefully, unafraid of the forthcoming dawn. And days pass living in sordid reality of this place, this horrendous place. There are so many things that I wish I could tell you. That I had almost got suspended from college for breaking the law; that I don’t really like engineering and crave for things that make me happy; the girl whom I want in my life; moments when I feel I’m good for nothing; times when I get terrible inferiority complexes with people…just everything. Mom, I’m hurt and broken and totally messed up. Only if you could be here on my bed and I could rest my head on your lap and get my hair caressed. Only if I could listen to yours and papa’s same couple of bedtime stories till I fell asleep. Is it possible? You know, I’ve made myself strong to be able to hear a ‘no’ but in this case I so frantically wish it could be a ‘yes’.

As I write this, I want to tell you that it’s not quiet in here. There are people in this room with unknown faces, hiding their stories, and trying to have a peek into mine. I don’t want to tell them. Even if I will, do you think that they’ll understand? I am still looking for folks who will understand. It’s difficult, isn’t it? I wish I had superpowers like you, to be able to tell who are worth being with and who are not just by looking at or talking to them. I remember when I was a child you used to warn me against a few children of my group – and told me to stay away from them. I used to get irritated with you. But now I know that you were right. You’ve been right all these years. Every damn day when I step out, I feel strange emptiness in the air. Only if you could warn me again, because honestly, I’m failing. I need your golden advice now more than ever.

I hate hostel, mom. I don’t feel nice. I feel suffocated. You know this, don’t you? Will you get angry with me if I say I skipped lunch today because it was abhorrent just like every other day? Turns out, the bowl of boiled pieces of bittergourd which you ran around with, after me, in the entire house, to make me eat them were still better than the chicken curry here.

I miss you a lot, I know you’re with me always and I know you miss me too. But I have to be here for another three and a half years, and perhaps two years more after that. But I promise you, I’ll be happily settled in life and once I become settled, I’ll never leave you.

Love forever,
Your son


2 thoughts on “I miss you, Mom

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