Oh goodness, the scorching sun is getting hotter day by day. but as for temporary thank goodnesswe were going to our home today...after 2 and a half month for Eid vacation. So today it was not a cooking day ..
In the lunch, today I decided to eat some junk.
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t make a list. After two and a half months of hostel food and then home food again, my body just wanted something different. Something I didn’t have to cook. Something that didn’t come in a mess tray. Something that felt like a small reward.
So I looked at my sister. She looked at me. We both said it at the same time: “Junk?” “Junk.” We went to Fork and Knives. Because we both didn't want to go anywhere but near by our hostel. Soz this restaurant was just behind our hostel building. As we go there...The place was full. That usual lunch rush. The smell hit me before I even sat down — oil, cheese, fried chicken. Loud food. Food that doesn’t whisper. It announces itself.
We didn’t spend time on the menu. We already knew what we wanted. I ordered their chicken lanagna and loaded fries.
The lanagna came first. Long, stuffed, crusted chicken cut into thick pieces. It’s not clean food. Cheese stretches when you lift it. Sauce drops on the plate.You’re going to make a mess and you know it from the start. But lemme show you the precise layers ...oh goodness..
Then the loaded fries. Fries at the bottom, chicken bits, cheese, sauce on top. You can’t eat it like normal fries. You dig in. You build a forkful and pray it stays together till your mouth. I started eating. Cheese on my fingers in the first minute. Sauce on the side of my shirt. My sister stealing fries from my tray while I was busy with the lanagna. I stole some back. We laughed. We didn’t tell each other to stop.
This sause,,,, mixture of Hot sauce with little bit of ketchup..is my all time favourite.
Hostel taught me to eat fast and neat. Shared table, limited time. Home taught me to sit right, chew, say “Alhamdulillah.”
Today I forgot both. Today I ate like someone who was finally home and didn’t have to impress anyone. The chicken was hot. Crispy outside, soft inside. The fries were a mix — some soggy from sauce, some still crisp at the edges. Not perfect. But I didn’t want perfect. I wanted this. I chose it. We got it.
And obviously no meal is complete without cilled cola...
We walked out into the heat. Sun was strong. My steps were slower because of the fries. My sister was quiet because she was full.
Now finally its time to go to home. My ticket time was 5:40. We pakced our stufff... swiftly because were extremely excited.Two and a half months. That’s how long it had been. Hostel life has its own rhythm. Wake up, job/classes, mess food, late-night talks, assignments, sleep, repeat. You get used to it. You make friends. You learn to manage. You say “I’m fine” when someone asks if you miss home.
But “fine” is not the same as “home.”
The bus ride was quiet. Not because we had nothing to say. Because both of us were thinking the same thing. We didn’t have to say it out loud. Hostel teaches you to keep some feelings inside. You laugh, you eat, you study. But at night, when the lights go off, you know what’s missing. I was deadly missing my parents.
That’s the honest part. I didn’t tell them every week on the call. “How are you?” “I’m good.” “Mess food okay?” “It’s okay.” You don’t want to worry them. You act strong. But strong doesn’t mean you don’t miss. Strong just means you keep going even when you miss. Two and a half months is long enough to forget small things. The way my mother calls me for dinner. The way my father asks about my day even when he already knows the answer. The way the house sounds at 7 PM — not silent, not loud. Just lived in.
The bus stopped. Rickshaw to our street. Same street. Same turn. Same gate. And then the door opened. It wasn’t a movie scene. No slow music. No big speech. Just my mother standing there. Just my father saying my name like he always does. Just my brother hugging me before I could even put my bag down.
And suddenly, I wasn’t “fine” anymore. I was home.
I didn’t realize how much I was holding until I could put it down. The tiredness, the adjustment, the pretending everything is okay. It all came out in one breath. Not crying. Just exhaling.
We sat in the drawing room. Same chairs. Same table. My mother brought tea without asking if I wanted it. She just knew. My father asked about my classes, but he was really asking if I was okay. I said yes. This time, I meant it.
Dinner was not fancy. Daal, roti, simple things. But it tasted different. Because it wasn’t from a mess tray. It was from my kitchen. Because someone made it for me, not for 200 students.
My sister and I looked at each other across the table. We didn’t need words. Two and a half months we managed together in hostel. We shared a room, we shared stress, we shared laughs. Now we were sharing home again.
That night I slept in my own bed. The fan made the same sound. The blanket was the same one. Nothing had changed, but everything felt new.
I realized something lying in bed that night. I was not a child coming back. I was not the same person who left two and a half months ago. Hostel changed me. I’m older now. I can manage. I can cook. I can live without my parents watching every day. But I can also miss them. And that’s okay. Missing doesn’t make you weak. Missing means you belong somewhere.
