The Return, Part Two: The Boy Wasn't the Story-But He Was Part of the Unraveling
The boy wasn’t the story. But he was part of the unraveling.
When I got to Rajasthan—for the first time in my life—I felt uneasy. I’ve traveled alone for years. I know how to land in a foreign place and find my footing. But this time was different. I landed late at night, and as we drove through dim, narrow streets, I saw groups of men gathered in silence. My phone barely worked. I tried to stay calm, to ground myself, but something inside me paused. I remember thinking—why am I doing this part alone?
He had been messaging for days, offering to meet me. I kept stalling. I had just ended a seven-year relationship and was still moving through the grief and strange freedom that follows letting go. I didn’t want distraction. I didn’t want to be witnessed. I came back to India to find myself, not to fall into someone else.
But part of me already knew. If he came, he’d fall in love with me. Not out of ego. But because I know how I move through the world. I’ve worked hard to know who I am. People feel that — especially when they’re not used to someone walking in their truth.
Eventually, I said yes. I was exhausted. Communicating in a language I didn’t speak, navigating new cities, carrying the weight of everything I had just seen—my orphanage, the hospital where I was born. I told myself: Let it be easy for a moment. You trust him. Let him help. Let him witness this.
So he came.
And I guess the rest is history.
Just kidding—there’s a lot to tell.
There was love. Real love. There was heartbreak. And then again, more love.
What followed is a story I’ll share in pieces.
After Rajasthan, we traveled together. And in Varanasi, something deepened. That was where we stopped pretending. The connection between us cracked open. It felt ancient. Like our souls had known each other before.
But love doesn’t always bring clarity.
What we had wasn’t simple. He was still tethered to something else. Someone else. But he told me he wanted a life with me. That I was his future. That we were meant to be.
And I believed him. Because when you’ve spent your life searching for home, you don’t always question the places that feel familiar—even if they’re not steady enough to stay.
Eventually, I left India. I went to Sri Lanka. Then returned to the United States.
That could have been the end. But it wasn’t.
We stayed in contact—emails, voicemails, threads of hope stretched across oceans. But that part of the story is for another time.
Because this wasn’t just about love. It was about return. And reckoning.
That first trip rearranged something in me. I didn’t feel like a tourist. I felt like someone coming home to a place I had never really known. There was beauty in the chaos. Belonging in the unfamiliar. A stillness inside the noise that felt more honest than anything I’d experienced in the West.
That first trip changed how I saw everything. My American life. My birth country. The life I was given—and the life I never got to live.
The aunties in the street. The strangers calling me Didi. The way the land felt like it remembered me. It made me realize how much I had longed for something I couldn't name.
And it was only the beginning.
To be continued…