I woke up early—earlier than the hostel bell. Quietly, I got ready and had breakfast alone in the college canteen. After that, I found a tree near the classroom block and sat beneath it, watching the wind play with the dry leaves. I was deep in thought. I didn’t even know Bangalore properly, and yet I was completing my first week of college here. I felt scared. Not of the place—but of myself. I knew the problem was inside me. I tried to understand it, but I still didn’t know what to do about it.
While sitting there, I watched students start arriving. It felt new to me. I had never observed people like this before—boys, girls, professors—the way they behaved, their style, how they carried themselves. It was all interesting.
Everyone seemed to make friends so easily. There was laughter, handshakes, and casual chats. But I couldn’t move even a bit toward that. What if they didn’t like me? How would I handle it? That fear kept me from trying. Some of them didn’t even know Hindi or Kannada, but still made friends. I just didn’t have the courage.
Girls here were so different. Confident, stylish, free. But in my school, they were more traditional, like old souls in young bodies. Suddenly, my mind drifted to my school days… P.E.T. sir, Ramya. She got placed in PSG College. She helped me. I liked her. I don’t even have her number now. I could ask my friends, but I haven’t. Even my Facebook profile doesn’t have a picture. How will she even know it’s me?
Back in the present, I saw my classmates enter the college. They were already making new friends, laughing, talking in Kannada or Hindi. I stayed silent. My world was still.
The bell rang, and everyone rushed into the classroom. Once inside, they talked about their weekend plans—clubs, parks, trips, house parties. Our physics professor walked in and started teaching the basics of physics, and how it applies to everyday life. I focused hard, trying to understand.
After class, again they continued chatting about the weekend. I wanted to explore Bangalore too… but I didn’t know where to begin.
The day passed quickly. Everyone left. A few looked at me—maybe because I looked like a “hero” type? Maybe “Thalik,” as they call it. But when someone came close, I froze. My mind wanted to speak, but my mouth refused. My heart whispered, “Accept this, Vinoth. Accept your life.”
A week passed like this. A blur of lectures, lonely meals, pretending to be okay. I was the only one staying in the hostel. While others rushed around, I moved slowly. One evening, I left the college and went to a tea shop nearby. I had tea, wandered around, and came back.
Near the library, Krishnappa sir, the library staff, noticed me.
He asked gently, “Are you okay, Vinoth?”
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
He smiled and said, “Come to my house tomorrow, Saturday. My wife keeps talking about you. We’d like to meet you properly.”
It felt like magic. I wasn’t expecting that. He didn’t wait for my answer—he just ordered me and walked away.
The next morning, I got ready, had breakfast in the canteen, and returned to my room. My roommate P.V. Thilak hadn’t come back last night. I didn’t have friends in Bangalore and nothing much to do, so I started studying my syllabus. It was interesting. From 8 to 10, I revised everything from last week. It felt good. I decided I’d go to Manjula aunty’s house, but waited for the right time.
At 10:30, I started from the hostel. It took me 25 minutes to reach their house. Aunty welcomed me warmly, like I was her own son. We talked about my health, food in the canteen, studies, and when I last spoke to my mother. I answered everything. Uncle was at college for a meeting, so we watched some TV and waited for him to return. Then we had lunch together.
After lunch, aunty told me to rest in their son’s room. I hesitated at first, but eventually accepted. I couldn’t sleep, though—I just looked around the room, thinking.
In the evening, uncle got ready to meet some college friends. Aunty reminded him, “I told you we need to go to the supermarket today.”
Uncle replied, “Sorry, ma. I told them I’d come. You and Vinoth can go.”
So aunty asked me to accompany her to buy groceries. I agreed. I didn’t show it, but deep down, I really needed that break.
We took an auto. I saw the city, the people, the traffic—all through new eyes. In 20 minutes, we reached a large mall with a supermarket inside. I was amazed. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a big place. Aunty took a trolley, and I helped her push it around.
We walked through every aisle. I’d never seen so many grocery products in my life. Aunty noticed it was my first time, and let me explore freely. She even checked out the dress section, tried convincing me to take some clothes. I refused, saying I already had enough.
At the billing counter, I helped her with the payment—₹4500. Then we stepped outside. At the entrance, there was an ice cream stall. Aunty asked, “Do you like ice cream?”
I smiled, “Yes.”
She told me that every time she shops, she treats herself to one.
We were enjoying our cones when suddenly a girl walked up to me and said, “Hi Vinoth, how are you?”
I froze.
I didn’t know anyone in Bangalore.
I looked at her—she was slightly chubby, had a good smile, sharp nose, and straight hair.
I stammered, “May I know you?”
She said, “We study in the same college,” and before I could say anything more, her friends called her, and she said bye and walked off.
Aunty smiled and told me, “Talk to girls, Vinoth. That’ll help you get rid of your inferiority complex.”
That evening was one of the happiest since I came to Bangalore. Aunty again forced me to eat. I tried to refuse—but, like all mothers, she won.
While we were eating, she said, “We’re going to America soon.”
Those words hit me hard.
I didn’t show it, but inside… I felt empty.
Why do all the good people leave?
Maybe… that’s just my life.
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