Saying goodbye or even just “see you soon!” has never been easy for me. I wasn’t the type to cry on the last day of school or college, but I have recently found myself getting a little sniffly at moving out of my first shared house in Hyderabad, saying goodbye to colleagues because I was moving cities and moving to a new office, saying goodbye to everyone I knew in Hyderabad (and about a hundred people that I didn’t know) at the big farewell party..
But that pales in comparison to saying goodbye to my family, doesn’t even begin to compare. Just when I think I’ve gotten used to being away from home – WHACK! Sentimentality smacks me one upside the head.
In the beginning, it was even kind of funny. My grandmother didn’t realize I’d moved out for at least a couple of months. Before I started work in Hyderabad, we’d miss each other for days on end because when she was awake, I’d be asleep, and when she was up for dinner, I’d be out partying, and when she would come and look for me, I’d be in the other flat. It took her about three months to understand I was working in Hyderabad, and another month to figure I wasn’t coming back for a while.
After that, she was a-ok, and now gives me a big smile and a hug when I’m home, “poor child, you travelled so far?” before launching into all the gossip I missed out on while I was away. Living outside the house gets me a free pass into ALL its secret goings-on and petty family squabbles.
So when it’s time to leave, I invariably get a bit of a lump in my throat. I know I have a few months at home again this summer before heading to Dartmouth – and maybe halfway through the summer I’ll be wishing I could leave earlier – but something tells me saying goodbye for two years in August 2010 is going to be way more difficult than I thought it would be.
The worst of it is leaving Danny, or him leaving me, when we’ve been fortunate enough to have a couple of days together. For all those days, it seems like we have all the time in the world to chat, crack jokes (funny in his case, lame in mine), trade insults, cuddle and watch ridiculous videos on YouTube, when we’re not discussing serious philosophical issues and religious beliefs. And then I book my cab to the airport, or he packs his bags and books his taxi, and suddenly we know that in a matter of hours the house will be quiet again. And we won’t see each other again for another month.
For me, at least, being the one left behind is infinitely worse. Let me be the one catching the taxi. At least heading out, you have incentive to keep it together lest the Indigo ground staff catch you bawling. I hate saying goodbye.
Two years? 
