For the last two weeks, I was away. Not away from work, not away from responsibility, not away from people either — just away in a way that doesn’t show on maps. The first week was normal, almost boring in the best way. The same basic chart we usually follow, the routine, the discipline, the everyday motion. I could have uploaded that week as a singular blog, but it didn’t feel honest to isolate it. It felt like a sentence that needed its second half. So I held it back and decided to attach two weeks together — one week where I was in Mumbai, living with the quiet excitement of going home the next week, and the second where I was actually living in the place where I was born and raised. While writing this, I realised something uncomfortable but true: I want to be a version of myself that I am currently not. And this wasn’t ambition talking — it was memory.
This blog is emotional, yes, but it’s not only sad. It’s overwhelmed, reflective, nostalgic, and sometimes even funny in a stupid, familiar way. I’m dividing it into three parts: Initial Handshake, On the Road, and Back to the Airport.
The week starting 18th January was supposed to be normal. Packing bags, planning outfits, thinking about what I’d eat, where I’d go, and how many days would disappear without warning. I was excited, but not in a loud way — more like that quiet happiness you feel when something familiar is coming back. I kept doing my routine: work, gym, basic discipline, pretending I wasn’t counting days. Somewhere in between, I bought Air Max shoes for my big brother — blue and white — and for some reason, that small act made me unreasonably happy.
Work-wise, I pushed myself harder than usual and maintained fitness almost obsessively because I already knew what was coming. Once I touched down at IGI Airport, food would take over. My best friends would pick me up. We’d stop at our usual OTW restaurant — the same place we always stop when we go to Delhi, no matter what. All of this was already playing in my head, and maybe that’s why I ended up making the Emirates commercial that week. I only realised this while writing the blog, which is funny because clarity always arrives late. I shipped three videos that week — probably because after almost three years, I was going home with ninety percent freedom and ten percent fear. Fear about work, fear about losing rhythm, fear about coming back changed.
Going home this time felt different, but not in a bad way — just unfamiliar. Trips are never just trips for us. There’s always snowfall, traffic, house work getting stuck, plans breaking before they even start. That’s how vacations begin in real life. But it was okay. From 18th to 25th January, I worked enough to earn at least one proper day of sleep. I pushed my brain hard, booked the morning flight on the 25th because it was cheaper, skipped the 24th because it was touching ₹20,000, and laughed at myself for still optimising money over time. Saturday went into work and presence. No activity, no plan — just sitting, talking nonsense, doing nothing. And that felt enough. Thanks CM and VM.
The moment I landed on the other side, the cold slapped me. Six degrees. No warning. This was my first proper winter of 2025, and my body was not ready. I met my brother, and we started our road trip immediately. We stopped at our favourite restaurant, ate paranthas like it was a ritual, and reached home. Sinus caught me badly — nonstop sneezing, watery eyes, exhaustion. One entire day disappeared without me noticing. Winter shrinks days; I forgot that. But people don’t shrink time. We still managed random gedis with no destination, helped a friend reconstruct his house, laughed while lifting bricks like we knew what we were doing, ate too much food, and argued about where to go next without actually going anywhere. This was also the first time we were doing all of this in my own car — the one I bought last year. That added pressure, responsibility, and some unnecessary stress. I trusted my guys, forgot some documents, panicked for two minutes, then remembered we live in 2025 and everything exists online. Crisis avoided. Even if we hadn’t gone ahead, I think I’d still have been happy.
Then came the road. Hisar to Chandigarh — four hours. Chandigarh to Kasauli — two more. Like always, one guy gets late. Like always, everyone pretends it’s fine. Like always, the journey starts with laughter.
There were delays — fun ones — the kind you remember later and laugh about. The real magic of road trips is never the destination. It’s the car. The songs, the silence, the stupid jokes, the roadside juice stops where the uncle knows more about life than any podcast. We laughed over nonsense — the kind of giggles that don’t need punchlines. Somewhere in between all this, a serious conversation crept in: marriage. I’ve always said openly that I don’t want to get married, but on that ride, I said something else too — that I do want affection, touch, presence. And the irony is, I was already getting it there, without asking. That ride reminded me of something important: you don’t remember people by their words; you remember them by how safe you feel around them.
That’s when the realisation arrived — quietly, without drama. I remembered that I used to have a good life. Not perfect. Not luxurious. But good. I had people. I had familiarity. I had comfort that didn’t need explanation. And the scary part wasn’t that my life is bad now — it’s that it’s different. The people I’m with today are not the people I grew up with. They don’t know my defaults. They don’t know my silences. They don’t know how I am when I don’t speak. Earlier, I didn’t have to perform presence — it existed naturally. Affection wasn’t something to decode or earn. It was just there. And now, suddenly, I’m aware of it being missing.
That realisation didn’t break me — it stuck. It looped. Not out of regret, but out of contrast. I remembered how easy it was to be myself earlier, how conversations didn’t feel like negotiations, how I didn’t have to think before every sentence, how laughter didn’t need context. Now, with new people, new cities, new environments, I feel like I’m constantly translating myself — and sometimes losing meaning in the process. It’s not that the people around me are bad. They’re just… not them. And that gap between who I was with and who I’m with now suddenly became visible.
What hurt the most was realising I don’t know when this shift happened. I don’t remember the day I crossed over. I don’t remember choosing to let go of that life — it just faded while I was busy building something else. And now that I’ve felt it again, laughed the same way again, sat in that comfort again, I don’t know how to unsee it. But at the same time, I also smiled more than I expected. There were moments when nothing was wrong. When everything felt okay. And maybe that’s important too.
By the time I reached the airport, my mind was noisy, but my heart wasn’t heavy — just full. Scared to board the plane? Yes. Overthinking? Definitely. But also grateful. The trip felt like a blink of the eye. I couldn’t remember dates, but I remembered feelings. Everything felt slightly unreal, like waking up from a deep nap. I questioned things — about myself, about life — but I also laughed at stupid memories scrolling through my phone. I realised I don’t know everything. And maybe I don’t have to.
The only proof I have that this trip happened is my gallery — almost one thousand photos and videos. And honestly, that feels enough.
If you want to talk about it, mail me at naman@samvan.in.
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