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“Dhyan rakhna beta” he said while giving me a hug that lasted a small lifetime. This loosely translates to “Take care, child” from Hindi. I was too emotionally disturbed to comprehend his words. Travelling alone had always seemed right. Yet, somehow, at that very moment, my breathing was heavy and father’s concern over my safety did not feel trivial. Somehow, the train berth was unusually uncomfortable and the air felt tighter. Pune was one of those cities one hears and forgets about. It exists in a world of its own, with just the right mix of the west and the east, like all other metropolitan cities of India. “We will have a lifetime of fun, Siddhi!” my teacher commented, as a measure to ward off my tears. I broke a half smile and noticed the unusually loud kid near my seat. The cold January air filled my ears and I struggled to find a scarf. All my meticulous planning was falling apart. Only 8 hours ago, I had almost lost my phone in the central railway station back home. It had slipped through the tear in my bag I had promised myself to get fixed. The strangers back home were surprisingly kind enough to return it back to father; who awarded them with some spare cash. My first trip outside home had not started well. The air was getting colder and the night darker. We managed to catch an auto for Sadhu Vaswani Street, our starting point, in Pune. My phone’s lining outside my bag felt oddly satisfying. After checking in a hotel, we decided to hunt for Pune’s authentic food for dinner. The street food road was louder than the crowds we were used to. Srushti, a local student accompanying us screeched “Thalipeeth!” as she saw a frail woman; sliding a wheat and barley pancake on the tava; an open frying pan to prepare a fresh batch for her customers. The smell of onions and coconut milk enticed us and yet I refused to eat. I was too embarrassed to eat on the road side. The constant urge to feel validated through strangers indifferent to my existence, I had decided, was an imperative. I forced myself to slip and dissolve quietly on the other side of the road. I remember looking at a red car with bright yellow lights before it crashed right into me. I smelt onions and coconut milk with a hint of rubber. “Dhyan rakhna beta” he said while giving me a hug that lasted a small lifetime. This loosely translates to “Take care, child” from Hindi. I was too emotionally disturbed to comprehend his words. Travelling alone had always seemed right. Yet, somehow, at that very moment, my breathing was heavy and father’s concern over my safety did not feel trivial. Somehow, the berth was unusually uncomfortable and the air felt tighter.