As I was tramping my way to the bank to get my account opened, my mother shared her latest article with me, ‘The Empty Nest Story’. My feet froze and I opened the article. As I read through, standing at the crossing, I missed several signals and sensed the passersby glare for coming in their way. A tear rolled down. I could not believe I was losing control on my emotions in the middle of a Paris street!  

It had been a difficult morning. The breakfast was a mess (with overcooked tea and undercooked eggs), some clothes had run color in the washing machine, the garbage situation needed addressing and the calls from the bank and the wifi company did not relent. It was a week since one had been in a new city and the euphoria of a tourist was giving way to the challenges of a new resident. It was my first time away from home. Yes, in all these years, I had somehow managed to keep the cocoon of my parental home within reach and my expeditions within a certain perimeter of comfort. But, here I was, in a distant new city in a new job. Nothing was familiar. And then I read my mother’s article. It spoke of my city, Delhi, my house, my room and most importantly my parents. And it all came rushing back. Suddenly, I felt alone in the bustling street. 

While ‘empty nest’ is the catchphrase for the parents coping with the departure of the child, why does not a word/phrase exist for the emotional turmoil that the children go through? Is it because it is part of the natural course of things? Or is it that the young are expected to simply cope better? My mother’s article spoke of how her friends and well-wishers asked how she was doing and added the age-old adage of ‘letting children go’. Contrasting with conversations with my friends, I realized that we spoke more about settling in, how I was managing the household chores, work and what all I had visited in the new city. Some gave advise on how to make quick meals. Others on the best way to commute. Yet others put me in touch with their friends to help me adjust. But I realized how every single one of them asked me how my mother was doing. It was like even in my age group, it was accepted that the parents have it the hardest. I wasn’t asked if I was missing her or how I was dealing with being away from her. So here I am, attempting to the address the ‘The Flown Bird Story’.        

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As children, we hear our parents speak of privilege and how we take parental homes for granted. The creature comforts, the pampering and the tantrum tolerance is indeed unparalleled. Growing up, my mother has not only been a parent but my best friend, my confidante and my idol. A call away, even when in the same city, we would speak to each other during the day. My father would often joke and say “You too need to cut the umbilical cord at some point!” 

Suddenly, transported to Paris, I found myself struggling for survival – the commute, the language, the work, and the HOUSE, one which I have to manage all on my own! Things like the almonds Ma would leave soaked overnight every day to miraculously ensuring that my toiletries were magically replenished, there were so many things I realized she just took onto herself. Somewhere in her ‘chip’ my file was always running! From that to suddenly being all on my own did come as a complete shock. Unpacking in a new house, I found things she had snuck into a crevice, despite me having said no, many a things including a stuffed toy that had adorned my bedside back home! My luggage had the scent of home and the warmth of love. Staring at the new space at night, when I knew Ma would be fast asleep, I’d wonder how ever would I come to accept this house. The time difference only aggravated the intensity of a sense of ‘being on your own’. Even as reality of the move sunk in slowly, there was almost no time to step back and understand what had happened. 

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Initially, I found myself calling up my mother for every little thing, even the ones she could do nothing about sitting thousands of miles away! Case in point – cribbing about the delayed wi-fi connection service (we all have forgotten how it is to live without internet!).  She would patiently lend an ear and then re-package the unsolvable and tell me how it is okay. As time passed, I found myself fighting off the urge to make her the first port of call, instead first dealing with the situation at hand and then telling her what had transpired. Perhaps, I too had begun my journey on the path to self-sufficiency.

You would think that in all this, there would be perhaps a breakdown of communication or at least some gap. But now, having been in Paris for a month, I can say that it really is more intensive communication with a time lag. As my life stabilized, Ma and I have found our common times. Almost naturally, we have sunk our schedules mentally that without having to see the time, I know what she would be doing based on my activity of the day! Invariably, we dine on a video call – me breakfast, she her lunch. In the evening (my time), after their nightly TV viewing is over, I get another call with father lurking in the backdrop. During the day, ranging from the weather, COVID situation, details of meals to family updates, everything is shared piecemeal. The good, the bad and the ugly. 

So yes, while we both now call different places our house, it really is still in each other that we have our home!