They say moving out is about freedom. About carving your own path, putting distance between you and the nest.
My first attempt: three floors up. Same building. New vibe. Old smells of tadka still reached my window by 2 PM sharp.
That year taught me everything the motivational posters skip. That a vacuum cleaner can bring inner peace. That mopping after a long workday is therapeutic, washing utensils is meditative, and refilling the fridge with overpriced almond milk is a rite of passage. I learned how to be on my own without really being on my own. Training wheels, technically. But the lessons were real.
One year later, I was ready. Dubai.
New city. New country. New timezone. The kind of move that sounds like ambition until you're standing in an empty apartment at 11 PM wondering if you packed enough of yourself.
Except I didn't have to wonder for long. Because maa came.
She didn't just visit. She set up the entire kitchen. Hired a cook. Sat with him for days — every recipe, every proportion, every preference. How I like my chai. What temperature. The exact way I eat. And the biryani masala? She made it herself. Packed it from Jaipur. Handed it over like it was classified intel.
This flat isn't just my space — it's my lab, my studio, my war room. The team works here now. Big ideas, small chores — both live here together. I'm building everything I've ever dreamt of from this address, a future that smells exactly like home.
And somewhere in all this, I get it. I get why my dad enjoys doing household chores and cooking. There's a quiet joy in maintaining what you've built with your own hands.
And maa made sure the biryani masala came with.