Three months have felt like three years. Every time I find time to sit in solitude, my mind wanders to the life that I once had. The life that was so different from the one that I’m leading, or as I might put it, am forced to lead at present. The grills on my window look like prison bars. I want to run as far as I can but cannot find a single place to hide.

Living in the suburbs is not that easy. Especially for someone who speaks street slang, curses every now and then and yes, has absolutely no person to say ‘hi’ to. I feel like a complete loner here, I feel as if every time the eyes of those rich, plastic laden, botox injected fifty year old knockouts bore into mine they somehow pity me in their minds because of my shabby clothes or blue-streaked hair. At the same time, I often catch a hint of utter despise and hatred evident of their faces. It is obvious that they think that someone as outcast as a teenager who can’t stand on her own to feet all that well and doesn’t know how to match up to their stereotypical standards of sophistication, is a disgrace to the ‘pretty’ roads of their ‘pretty’ suburbs.

This was not the life that I’d wanted. Living in one of the most posh areas of the city without a single friend to stand by my side and with a thousand accusing glares burning a hole in the back of my head, I think that my older house was better any day.
Yes, the colony was shabby with its moss laden walls and dirty roads. Yes, the neighbors weren’t all that well educated and didn’t even roam close to the idea of the cliqued upper class erudition. Yes, my Mom and Dad have landed me in this heaven after thinking that my previous home was a ‘slum’. But how can I stop thinking about all those memories of my childhood that I spent playing, running and screaming on the very roads of their so called slum? How can I forget that beneath their dilapidated exterior, they had a heart of gold? How can I forget about all the friends that I had, all the secrets that we shared and oh yes, the fantasies of our futures? How can I let go of my past so easily when I’m so much unsure of what’s lying ahead of me?

I knew that if ever, I was in any sort of trouble; all I had to do was cross the street and knock on a door. I was sure that I would greeted by a happy, smiling face; a smile that wasn’t the most beautiful and gorgeous smile in the world but was, in fact, the most reassuring little thing for me. It would make my heart leap with joy and relaxation that there were people who loved me and cared for me for who I am and not what an ‘outcast’ I look like.

One thing that I’m sure of is that I can’t do the same thing here. I know that I have no idea how to act rich or sophisticated because I’m not. And maybe, I don’t want to be. I don’t want to leave the one thing that defines me and completes me. I cannot change myself for something that the society wants me to be.

The phones have stopped ringing. The laughter is all gone. My friends back at my old place are tired of trying to keep me in touch when my parents are trying hard to cut off all the means of communication with them as they believe that it would make it ‘harder to adjust here if I keep on clinging on to the memories’. As I sit here, writing my heart out, a drop of tear materializes out of nowhere. I quickly brush it away and stare out of the window. Maybe they are right. Maybe I am overreacting.

But whatever it is, there is a part of me that knows that I can never relate to this place. There is still a part of me that dreams of being back there. Back in the place that I’m still not ashamed to call ‘home.’