“What time will it be in India when you get there?” Baba asked for the third time in as many days.
“It’s an 11-hour flight, Baba. Just count 11 hours, okay? Or ask Ma.”
“Eh, she rolls her eyes at me if I ask the same question twice.”
“Then stop asking!”
Ma interrupted – rolling her eyes – and told me to go in.
“Who knows how long immigration will take? Or security. Remember when they made us unpack the suitcase because of one toy?”
We hugged and said our goodbyes again, and I queued up to go inside.
Ma and Baba would wait at their favorite airport coffee shop until my flight departed, as they did whenever I traveled.
Once inside, I turned to look at them through the glass. They waved once more, then walked towards the coffee shop. I stood at the airport, watching them walk away, not knowing when or if I’d see them again.
I never wanted to return, or be with them ever again.
If I tell anyone this – anyone who knows us – they’d think I was crazy. Ungrateful. A bad son. It’s hard to explain, really.
My parents raised me with care. I had good clothes and toys. I went to a good school. They enrolled me in every extracurricular I showed interest in. Baba drove me to all of them. Ma ensured I ate well and played enough, stayed up with me whenever I was sick. You name it – anything loving, responsible parents are supposed to do, they did.
All except one.
They never could make me feel loved.
I didn’t realise this when I was younger and mistook new toys or treats for ‘love’. As I grew, it started to feel like they did these things because that’s what good parents were supposed to do. Not because they loved me.
They were never cold to me. I just never felt their warmth.
Every-time they handed me a screen, it felt like they wanted me out of the way. I often wondered if I was just annoying to talk to. Ishaan envied the gaming consoles I’d had since I was 8, never realising how much I envied his board game nights. I can’t even imagine my parents getting excited over a Jenga tower like his parents did. I still remember how Meenal’s parents beamed when she won a bronze medal at chess. Mine smiled broadly at my badminton gold too. Yet it felt less, and I couldn’t explain why.
I doubt they know I feel this way – I never told them. Never told anyone.
Sometimes I think I made this up in my head and believed it long enough to make it reality.
Other times I wonder why their hugs never comfort me. Am I just broken?
It doesn’t matter now though. I’m off to start something new – far away from them. The way they’ve always felt to me.
But if I’m wrong, will they miss me?
If they do, will I care?
