The car rolled to a stop at the red light. Dad glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his brow creased with fatherly concern. "Quite a long vacation for you, huh?"
I met his gaze. "Yes, Baba", feeling the weight of the past nine months. The pandemic had disrupted my transition to 11th grade, the isolation and frustration of online classes gnawing at me. I had even resorted to blocking my teachers' numbers to skip classes without getting caught, a cowardly act that now filled me with shame.
Dad's calloused hand found my shoulder. "How long until you're back now?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. Festivals like Dashain and Tihar had already gone by, and with our school courses significantly behind schedule, the likelihood of getting a vacation seemed increasingly unlikely.
Approaching the hostel, I grasped for a way to delay our arrival. "I'm hungry," I blurted out.
Dad's features softened with understanding. "I know hostel food can't compare to a mother's home cooking," he said, smiling. "Alright, let's find a place."
We turned into a nearby Nepali restaurant, its warm ambiance embracing us like an old friend. Soft folk melodies and aromatic spices stirred memories of my mother's kitchen. The cozy decor, adorned with traditional art and colorful tablecloths, offered a comforting break from hostel monotony.
Seated comfortably, a waiter approached with a friendly smile. "What can I get for you, sir?"
Dad glanced at me, a silent understanding passing between us, before turning to the waiter. "Two plates of buff momo, please."
I smiled inwardly, struck by Dad's intuitive understanding of my unspoken desires, a rare moment of connection that felt like a soothing balm for my aching heart.
"Do you remember the last time we had momos together?" Dad asked, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "It was during Tihar, just before the lockdown."
I cherished these moments with Dad, who always seemed consumed by his work—a constant sacrifice for the nation he served. "Yes, Baba. Those were the best momos," I recalled warmly, finding solace in the memory. "Mom's secret blend of spices, kneading the dough—it all felt so right."
As we ate, Dad reminisced about my younger days before hostel life, his voice tinged with wistful regret. "Remember how Didi used to spoil you rotten?" he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with fondness. "She'd sneak you those sugary pushtakari candies despite your mother's scolding."
I nodded, a sad smile playing across my lips as the memories flooded back. Didi's boisterous laugh, the way she'd let me help cook pushtakari—melting molasses with ghee and milk, then topping it with coconut, dates, or nuts. The simple moments now ached with nostalgic longing.
"She adored you," Dad continued, his voice softening. "She cried for weeks when she left to get married. You were so upset you missed her wedding because of hostel rules."
I remembered the emptiness I felt when Didi left, a void no rules could fill.
"I wish I could have been there," I mumbled around a mouthful of momo.
"You've grown into a fine young man," he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. "Your brother will join you in the hostels next year. I hope you'll mentor him."
I realized then that Dad saw this regimented life as a way to forge integrity and bonding he'd missed with his own sons while serving the nation. His sacrifices weighed heavy in the unspoken words.
"Your mother and I are proud of you," he said sincerely. "It's not easy being away so much, but you've handled it with grace beyond your years."
A lump formed in my throat, threatening to choke me. I wish you knew how utterly alone I've felt at times, Baba.
He smiled, reaching across the table to tap my forearm, a simple gesture that spoke volumes. "Just do your best and take care of yourself. We're here for you, always."
I savored each bite, eating slowly to prolong my time outside the hostel walls. Dad had already finished his plate and was patiently waiting for me, his eyes softening with understanding.
Of course Baba understood why I delayed.
He chuckled softly, the sound warm and comforting like a crackling fireplace. "Eat up quickly. We don't want to be late."
His gentle reminder nudged me to hasten, though I secretly wished the meal could stretch on a little longer.
Outside, as we approached the car, the cool evening breeze gently caressed my face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the promise of change. Dad glanced at me, his eyes holding depths of emotion that words could never fully capture.
"Remember, we're just a phone call away," he said softly, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Anytime you need us, don't hesitate to call, okay? You'll always be my son, and no matter the distance, our hearts are forever close."
"I will, Baba. Thank you," I responded, feeling a touch more at ease. His words seemed to weave an invisible thread between us, a lifeline to cling to in the darkest moments of loneliness.
He smiled warmly, the creases around his eyes deepening with affection, and reached out to ruffle my hair—a familiar gesture that harkened back to simpler times. "That's my boy. Now, let's get you back to the hostel."
Settling into the car beside Dad, we resumed our journey. The familiar landscapes gradually gave way to unfamiliar vistas. My gaze was drawn to the towering statue of Lord Shiva in Sanga, signaling our approach to the school grounds. Soon, the sprawling hostel area emerged amidst rolling hills covered in lush greenery, a serene contrast to the strict and orderly buildings rising against the picturesque backdrop.
The scene was captivating: buildings nestled on the slopes, surrounded by trees, creating a tranquil retreat. Vibrant red roofs stood out against the verdant foliage, blending harmoniously with the environment. Despite its beauty, the hostel complex exuded discipline and order, with meticulously arranged buildings and a uniform color palette that spoke of regimented routines – a stark contrast to the carefree days of my youth.
Mixed emotions stirred within me as I surveyed the maze of buildings. Nostalgia brought back memories of simpler times, while apprehension whispered doubts about the challenges ahead. Yet underneath, I sensed that familiar determined spark - to prove myself, if not to my loved ones, then to myself.
I rolled down the car window, inviting the crisp mountain air to caress my face, carrying with it the scents of pine and promise. The lingering taste of momos on my tongue served as a poignant reminder of the comforting embrace of home, memories of Mom's gentle presence flooding my mind. Her words echoed through the years, urging me to embrace challenges with courage and uphold our family's values, no matter how daunting the path ahead might seem.
Approaching the entrance, the weathered sign above the gate greeted us like an old friend – Nepal Pahari Bidhalaya (Nepal Police School): Established in 2040 B.S. (1983 A.D.). Peering through the wrought-iron gates, I found myself face-to-face with the towering walls that had shaped my childhood, their imposing presence both familiar and foreboding.
Dad skillfully maneuvered the car through the gates, revealing the school's familiar layout etched into my memory. Rows of dormitories and academic buildings stood in disciplined formation, their uniform facades a stark contrast to the vibrant hues of nature that surrounded them. He parked in front of the main gate, the engine's rumble fading into silence as we unloaded our bags.
I couldn't help but note the essentials meticulously packed: toiletries, stationery, snacks, college tracksuits, warm coats, and crisp uniforms – each item bearing the school's emblem, a constant reminder of the institution's indelible imprint on our lives. These simple possessions carried with them the essence of home comfort, a tether to the world I had momentarily left behind.
Lost in contemplation, I was abruptly interrupted by Dad's voice, tinged with gentle impatience. "Hey, come on, we need to do the entry first."
"Okay," I replied, managing a smile despite the unease gnawing at me, a silent acknowledgment of the transition that lay ahead.
Approaching the entry area, I felt nostalgic anticipation. The sloping road led to reception where students and parents bustled nervously. Their hushed murmurs carried the weight of countless unspoken hopes and fears. Physical classes had recently resumed for grades 11 and 12, but other grades treaded cautiously due to lingering COVID concerns, casting an air of uncertainty over the scene.
Thoughts of my younger brother, soon to join grade 6, tugged at my heart.
Amidst the scattered groups, I caught sight of a few old friends. Conversations buzzed around me, but I remained lost in my thoughts, adrift in the sea of memories that threatened to overwhelm me.
"Rom!" a voice called out, its familiarity cutting through the haze and pulling my attention back to the present. It was Dad's friend, and he turned to greet the man with a warm smile. "Been a long time."
The man nodded, his gaze shifting to me with a mixture of curiosity and recognition. "Is this your son?"
"He looks just like Vauju (Nepali word for friend's wife)," the man remarked, invoking memories of my mom that felt both comforting and bittersweet.
Dad chuckled warmly, the sound rich with affection, and I managed a shy smile, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of their shared history.
"Go ahead without me, I'll join you shortly," Dad said, gesturing towards the entry desk.
At the entry desk stood Ramesh Guru, a familiar figure from my tenth-grade years. He greeted me with a warm smile and a roguish wink, his tanned face crinkling merrily. Despite a slight limp from an old football injury, he stood energetically.
"You've grown quite tall," he remarked with amusement, giving me a friendly slap on the back that nearly sent me sprawling.
"I suppose so," I replied, filling out my details – name, arrival time, parental information – and leaving the signature part for Dad to complete.
"Heard you've been causing just as much trouble as expected," he chuckled. Noticing Dad's absence, Guru asked, "Where's your dad?"
I nodded toward Dad chatting with a friend. "He'll sign after."
"Any contraband?" Guru asked firmly. He inspected my bags thoroughly, giving a nod of approval when he found nothing.
"I'll submit the report and be right back," I told him, heading towards the medical office.
Approaching the medical office, I was greeted warmly by the familiar face of the medical staff. "You've really grown tall," she remarked, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she checked my report with practiced efficiency.
Her comment sparked a flood of memories – countless visits to this very office, finding solace in temporary escapes from the rigors of school routines. Her smile hinted at a shared understanding of those moments.
Returning her smile, I expressed my gratitude for her kindness, a simple gesture that carried far more weight than mere words could convey. With a gentle nod, she reminded me to take care, her maternal concern a soothing balm for the uncertainties that loomed ahead.
Collecting my cleared report, I reluctantly stepped back into the world of dormitory life, the weight of familiarity settling upon my shoulders like a well-worn cloak. Returning to the entry area, I found Guru concluding his bag inspection, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Glancing around, I spotted Dad engrossed in conversation nearby, his animated gestures and hearty laughter a testament to the bond he shared with his friend, forged through years of shared experiences.
Amidst their reunion, a voice called out, cutting through the din like a bolt of lightning. "Oi, Axus!"
Startled, I turned to see Bipu, a friend from grade 5, his familiar round face lighting up with a mischievous grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. His familiar face sparked a rush of memories – surprise, nostalgia, and a sense of connection amidst the unfamiliarity that threatened to overwhelm me.
"Yeah, it's me," I replied, lowering my mask to reveal a cautious smile.
Bipu grinned, his eyes crinkling with delight. "I knew it! You've really shot up. How've you been?"
"I'm fine," I said, the comforting warmth of familiarity easing the tension that had coiled within me.
He eyed my height. "How many times a day?" His smirk hinted at playfulness, referring to the funny myth here that the more you ejaculate, the taller you grow.
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We laughed, easing the tension of our long separation. Though shorter than me, he had a scrappy energy about him, like a terrier always ready to playfully nip at your heels.
Despite the years and distance, Bipu's presence grounded me amidst the uncertainties of returning to school. "It's been a while. I'm glad to see you," I admitted, appreciating the unexpected familiarity.
"I get it. It's a bit nerve-wracking, isn't it?" Bipu sympathized, echoing my own apprehensions.
"Yeah," I said, smiling, then asked, "How did you end up being here?"
"Uh, well, my parents forced me to," he said with a wry smile.
Bipu was always enjoyable to talk to, despite our infrequent conversations back in grade 5. We shared fond memories, and seeing him again brought back a flood of nostalgia. His stature hadn't changed much since then; he retained a shorter frame with a square, fair face that showed little alteration except for a newly sprouted mustache. I remembered how seriously we took our appearances back then, often comparing ourselves in the mirror. He had left after just a year in grade 5, and his return now must have been a decision filled with complexities.
Dad finished his conversation and approached us with a warm smile. "Namaste, Uncle," Bipu greeted respectfully.
"Namaste, babu," Dad replied warmly. "So, you're my son's friend?"
"Yes, Uncle. We were classmates in grade 5."
"It's great to reconnect with old friends," Dad remarked thoughtfully. "Wouldn't it be something if you two could room together?"
"Our room assignments are set; we can't change them," I interjected.
"Yeah, Uncle," Bipu confirmed.
Dad turned to Bipu with curiosity. "Where are your parents?"
"They've already left, Uncle. I got here early, around 11 am," Bipu explained.
Dad chuckled. "Ah, Axus, always fashionably late," teasing me playfully.
Feeling the weight of my bags, I shifted uncomfortably. "Dad, I'm heading to the hostel now. You can go sign in at the entry register; they need your signature."
"Right, I'll do that," Dad nodded. "Wait for me; I'll walk you to the entrance."
The school campus sprawled with gates and essential facilities like parking, reception, an inquiry center, and a multipurpose hall for events. A bustling canteen for management students added to its vastness, giving us a glimpse of the school's expansive grounds beyond the registration area and student entrance.
"Bipu!" A voice called out eagerly. He turned to see a friend approaching, his cheeks flushed with excitement and mischief dancing in his eyes. Though shorter than me, Bipu radiated restless energy, shifting from foot to foot. "Still just as punctual, I see," he teased with a grin.
"I wish we could be roommates, Axus," Bipu said, his enthusiasm palpable.
"Yeah, that would've been something," I replied wistfully.
"Seen the hostel building yet?" I asked.
"Yeah, been there. They've already assigned roommates. Curious who I'll end up with," Bipu mused aloud.
"Same here," I agreed, looking forward to the new experience ahead.
Dad returned, breaking the moment with his gentle inquiry. "Want to call Mom before heading to the hostel?" His voice carried both concern and a hint of longing, casting a shadow over my resolve.
I hesitated, emotions swirling like leaves caught in a sudden gust. The thought of hearing Mom's voice, so familiar and comforting, now felt like an anchor pulling me back to home's warmth, away from the uncertain future ahead.
"No," I murmured softly, barely above a whisper. The weight of my bags suddenly oppressive, their straps digging into my shoulders like the burden of leaving.
"I'm heading off now," I managed, words escaping with effort. Emotions churned inside me as I craved the simplicity of day college: waking to Mom's gentle scolding, racing through classes with friends, returning to comforting meals, and winding down with movies and games. Those moments felt like distant dreams now slipping away.
Bipu stepped forward, a comforting presence amidst the whirlwind of departure. "Axus, let me walk with you. I can help carry them," he offered with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder.
A nod of gratitude was all I could muster, unable to speak as a lump formed in my throat. The weight of my bags felt heavier now, laden not just with textbooks and clothes but with the emotions of leaving home behind.
Together, Bipu and I made our way towards the hostel, each step echoing with the quiet ache of separation. As we approached the familiar gates, I stole one last glance back. There stood Dad, his presence a pillar of both pride and concern etched on his weathered face. His unspoken love hung in the crisp air, tugging at my heartstrings.
Turning away was harder than I imagined. Walking forward felt like leaving a piece of myself behind, memories flooding my mind with poignant clarity. Laughter around the dinner table, Mom's comforting rituals in the kitchen, and Dad's unwavering support during tough times flashed before my eyes. Tears welled up, blurring my vision, as the realization of what I was leaving behind hit me with crushing force.
Every step whittled away at that remaining tie.
Bipu sensed my melancholy and walked quietly beside me, understanding the weight of unspoken goodbyes. Passing familiar buildings and dorms, memories of every school grade flooded back in vivid detail. Bipu's attempts to lighten the mood with nostalgic tales of our mischief during recess and failed attempts at sneaking out of study sessions brought a faint smile to my face, momentarily easing the heaviness in my heart.
In the distance, I spotted figures in the familiar school uniform accompanied by guardians, likely from our grade or 12. As we caught up to them, I recognized my classmate from grade 10, Surav.
"Oi, Axusssssss!" Surav's voice cut through the evening air, full of excitement. His sudden appearance brought back memories of our school days together.
Surav strolled up, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. His tall, lean frame gave off a relaxed vibe, but his eyes were sharp as ever. "Thought you'd lose that grumpy look over the break," he teased with a grin.
Surav and I hadn't always been friends. We started off on the wrong foot back in grade 8, but playing football together turned us into inseparable buddies by grade 10. His humor and math skills amazed me, though his unpredictable temper kept things interesting.
As we walked back to the hostel, Surav's smile was infectious. His younger brother, from my cousin's batch, walked quietly beside us.
"How's it going, bhai?" Surav's brother asked warmly.
"Doing okay," I replied, trying to hide my nerves about returning to hostel life.
"Don't worry," he reassured with a smile. "These years will be unforgettable."
Bipu, the third in our group, seemed a bit out of place. Trying to lighten the mood, I suggested, "Hey, Bipu, let's play football tomorrow."
Bipu brightened. "Sure, I'll play striker."
"I'll take midfield," Surav chimed in.
"And I'll be the goalie," I added, grinning. "Surav, you've got skills on the field."
Surav chuckled. "Axus is the only goalie worth playing against in this school." Our banter mixed with the rustling leaves, a brief moment of ease as dusk approached.
Suddenly, Surav's brother jumped in with a smirk, folding his arms. "Let me guess, you've convinced him to be your caretaker again?" he asked Surav, nodding towards me.
With confidence, Surav's older brother looked at us, sizing us up. Despite his slender build, there was a determined air about him.
"Remember this place?" he continued, pointing uphill where a white building peeked through the trees.
Confused, we looked around. We were nearing a sharp bend leading to our hostel dorm. Surav's brother pointed uphill, where a white building was barely visible through the trees.
"Voices echo from there every evening," he explained mysteriously.
We exchanged puzzled glances, intrigued by his cryptic words. Sensing our curiosity, he chuckled softly before adding, "Our batch called this spot 'Devil's Turn,' but around here, it's more like 'Angel's Answer'." His smile suggested he knew more than he was letting on.
Surav grinned mischievously, always ready for a story. "Angel's Answer, huh? Does that mean we'll find some heavenly wisdom around here?" he teased, lightening the mood with his humor.
Bipu, usually quiet, cracked a smile, caught up in the camaraderie. "Maybe the angels guide us through the turn safely every night," he added, his voice light with amusement.
I chuckled along with them, feeling the bonds of friendship deepen in the shared moment of banter and mystery. Surav's brother had a knack for weaving tales that blurred the lines between reality and myth, adding an unexpected thrill to our evening walk.
Intrigued, I furrowed my brow. "Sounds like the beginning of a ghost story," Surav joked, lightening the mood with his humor.
Surav's brother glanced at us with a knowing look, as if weighing his words carefully. "Perhaps," he said cryptically, "some stories are best left to the imagination."
Surav, ever eager to delve deeper, pressed on with a grin. "Come on, don't leave us hanging! What's the real story behind 'Angel's Answer'?"
His brother chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, but where's the fun in giving away all the secrets? Let's talk about something else—like that crazy goal in last night's match!" He deftly changed the topic, steering us towards a lively discussion that carried us through the rest of the evening.
Bonding over football banter, Surav's brother led us to our crimson two-story hostel dormitory. It stood proudly, with a textured brick facade. The upper floor housed grade 11 students, while the lower floor was designated for grade 12. Our hostel stretched long, somewhat isolated from the others, which suited us just fine for the peace it offered.
Surav's brother slowed his pace as we neared the hostel entrance, glancing up the hill which we showed us earlier. A sly grin crept across his face.
"You know, I probably shouldn't say much, but that's actually the girls' hostel up there."
He paused, letting the revelation hang in the air as our eyes widened...
"You know," he said, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "I probably shouldn't say too much, but that building up there..." He jerked his head toward it. "That's the girls' hostel."
My eyes widened as the gravity of his words sank in. Surav shot me a sidelong look, raising his eyebrows.
Surav's brother chuckled at our reactions. "Yeah, exactly. All those 'screams' echoing at night that gave it the 'Angel's Answer' nickname?" He made air-quotes with his fingers. "Just the ruckus of girls being girls over there."
Realization dawned as the long-standing mystery clicked into place. No ghostly cries or demonic howls - just the chaotic racket of our female counterparts.
"Oooh, that makes sense," Surav laughed, running a hand through his perpetually tousled hair. "Should've known."
"You'll see soon enough," his brother smirked, shooting a conspiratorial wink our way. "Girl hostels are a whole different level of chaos. Anyway, don't get any ideas, loverboys." His expression turned stern. "You know the rules about fraternizing. Best steer clear and focus on your studies this year."
"Why is it called 'Devil's Turning'?" I asked, curiosity piqued.
Surav's dai looked a bit shocked but answered softly, "At night, that turning looks like a scene out of a horror movie. It's really scary, so they call it that."
With that parting remark, he gestured us toward the entrance...
The stone table tennis court lay abandoned as we climbed the stairs, our footsteps echoing in the evening stillness. Familiar faces greeted us at the entrance, smiles warming the dimly lit hallway.
"Bipu Shrestha," Bipu stated, his voice faltering slightly under Prem Guru's scrutinizing gaze.
"He was our hostel warden back in grade 8 and also my judo guru, always looking out for us," I reflected. "But then he got reassigned to oversee grades 11 and 12 after our batch complained to the school. I hope he doesn't hold it against us and mess up our year."
Guru's pen traced a line on the arrival list, his brow furrowing. "Axus, Surav," he acknowledged with a curt nod. "Let's hope this year is an improvement over your antics in eighth grade."
I offered a sheepish grin. "We'll be model students, Guru. No more trouble, I promise."
Surav's eyes danced with mischief. "Maturity is our middle name now."
Guru's smirk betrayed his skepticism. "We'll see about that. Get settled quickly—line up at six sharp." His voice brooked no argument.
The minute hand edged towards six on my watch, tension mounting with each tick. "No dawdling," muttered Surav, hurrying his pace.
Guru surveyed the scene, his thick mustache twitching disapprovingly. His stout figure and short stature were evident under his sweat-stained undershirt, his substantial belly seeming to have its own gravitational pull.
"If you lollygaggers are done with the reunion," he grumbled, his voice booming, "line up for room assignments."
Surav shot me a quick glance, stifling a laugh. "Looks like old habits die hard."
Inside the hostel buzzed with activity—creaking beds, rustling fabric, and whispered conversations. Bipu's room appeared on our left, his name above the door. "See you later," he called, disappearing inside.
Surav and I continued until I found my room, 211.
"This is mine," I told Surav, hand on the doorknob. "Catch you later."
"Inside, two other students were already moving in and arranging their belongings. The first was short in stature but clearly lacked no confidence - he scowled openly as I entered, an arrogant sneer twisting his lips. His body language radiated a prickly defiance.
The second figure dwarfed his roommate, broad-shouldered and solid under his wire-rimmed glasses. His round face and deep brown complexion conveyed little expression, but his imposing physicality spoke volumes about the quiet menace he could project.
Neither seemed fazed by my entrance as they continued unpacking in a terse silence. Sizing up these strangers who would become my residential mates, I felt isolated tendrils of trepidation. How many clashes would the thin walls of our dorm bear witness to this year?"
I claimed the vacant top bunk amidst their controlled chaos. The familiar scent of home clung to the sheets—a reminder of the world I left behind.
As I smoothed the bedsheet over the mattress, a boisterous voice shattered the relative quiet of the room. "Axus! Long time no see, man!"
Naren strode in, his grin stretching from ear to ear. We embraced in a hearty handshake, the familiarity of an old friend washing over me like a warm tide.
"It's been too long," I agreed, unable to suppress a smile of my own.
Sajjan appeared in the doorway, his welcoming expression a beacon amidst the chaos of unpacking. "Hey, Axus, welcome to 211."
"Thanks," I replied, setting my bag down with a soft thud. "It's good to see some familiar faces."
"Axus!" Naren bellowed, his boisterous presence filling the room with a cacophony of thumps and rustling as he barged his way through our belongings. Unconcerned with personal space, he draped a burly arm around my shoulders. "Tell me later why you blocked my number last month," he said through a mouthful of paan.
Our reunion was briefly interrupted by Guru's shrill whistle piercing the air. "Sameel!"
Exchanging knowing glances, we spilled out into the corridor, the dull rumble of thunder echoing overhead. Raindrops had already begun their staccato dance against the windowpanes, harbingers of the approaching storm.
Guru's assessment of the weather was succinct. "It's gonna rain now. Briefing tomorrow." His gaze swept over the gathered students. "Anyone hungry can hit the dining hall. New kids, follow the old ones."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the heavens opened, unleashing a torrent of rain that sent us scattering for cover. I followed the familiar path back to our room, the rhythmic patter of droplets against the roof a soothing melody. Within the sanctuary of 211, an awkward silence reigned. The scowling Kushu and the broad-shouldered Hulesh gathered their umbrellas, casting furtive glances my way before disappearing into the deluge.
Sajjan murmured an excuse about catching up with friends, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Despite the routine nature of this transition, a pang of homesickness tugged at my heart. How overwhelming must this all feel for the new students? Fatigue settled over me like a heavy cloak as I methodically unpacked, stowing clothes and supplies in their designated nooks. The vacant room seemed to amplify the silence, broken only by the steady drumbeat of rain against the rooftop. Sinking onto my bunk, I stared up at the yellowed ceiling, memories of home flooding my mind's eye. Mom's home-cooked meals, the cacophony of siblings' laughter, the reassuring presence of Dad—all seemed so distant now, ephemeral wisps in the chill of the dormitory.
Despite my tiredness, sleep didn’t come easily. I turned over, trying to find a comfortable position, but my mind kept wandering. I thought about the coming year, the challenges, and the excitement. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but having familiar faces like Naren and Sajjan made it feel a little more manageable.
As I finally started to drift off, I heard the door creak open. It was Naren and Sajjan, back from catching up with their friends. They were speaking in hushed tones, trying not to disturb me.
“Is he asleep?” I heard Sajjan whisper.
"Looks like it," Kushu replied softly as he and Hulesh returned to the room. "Let’s not wake him up. He must be exhausted."
I guess kushu was a kind guy after all.
Their thoughtfulness made me smile. I closed my eyes, letting the sound of their quiet conversation and the rain outside lull me to sleep.
A renewed sense of determination burned away my melancholy. This journey was never just about weathering the physical distance, but unlocking an inner strength to honor my parents' sacrifices. Each challenge would be a step toward my dreams - and one day, back into their embrace. The path ahead wouldn't be easy. But this pilgrimage was one of the heart - a chance to carry the echoes of home within me.