By: Marbareen Khonglam
Winter holidays pass quietly wrapped in family conversations, familiar food, and slow village mornings. Christmas fades into memory, the New Year arrives, and for a brief moment, life feels complete. Then, almost suddenly, reality returns.
When relatives, neighbours or villagers ask, “When are you leaving?” The question lands heavier than expected. It becomes even harder when they add, “We’ll miss you.” So we just smile, nod quietly, and hide our emotions, knowing that if we speak too much, the goodbye may become unbearable.
Somewhere between the last celebration and the turning of the calendar, the realisation sets in: it is time to leave again. To pack our bags, to say goodbye to our village, and to part from parents and grandparents and return to the cities we now call our second home.
Packing begins in silence. Clothes are folded, belongings arranged, memories tucked away between layers of fabric. In the final days before leaving, the house begins to feel different. Not empty but just heavier. Nostalgia settles in, because we are already homesick even before stepping out.
For many young people, this feeling arrives long before the journey begins.
Mary-Donna Khriam, a young student studying in the city, says leaving home never gets easier.
“Home is my comfort zone. When it’s time to leave, I feel lonely and I don’t want to go. Leaving that comfort is never easy,” she says.
She admits homesickness often begins even before departure.
“At home, I depend on my mother for everything. When I think of leaving that behind, it makes me feel sick sometimes.”
We want to stay longer to stretch time, to sit a little more, to listen a little deeper. But instead of saying it aloud, we grow quieter. We smile more than usual and pretend everything is normal because some goodbyes are easier when left unspoken.
Chiinunmawi Samte, another youth, describes the return journey as bittersweet.
“I feel a strong attachment to home because of its familiarity. Returning to the city always carries mixed emotions.”
When the day finally arrives, parents and grandparents do what they always do. They never let us leave empty-handed. Bags are quietly filled with homegrown vegetables and local food, fresh greens, roots still carrying the scent of earth, flavours that never taste the same in the city.
Grandparents call us into their rooms and slip money into our hands. Even when we refuse, they insist gently: “Keep it. Buy something for yourself.” Then come the familiar reminders such as eat well, don’t live on instant food, take care of yourself. That is when the eyes sting. Since we’re already homesick, these small gestures make the heart feel unbearably warm. In those moments, many wish that they don’t want to leave at all.
For Mary, the first goodbye was the hardest.
“When I first moved to the city, I didn’t know what to do or where to go. My parents letting me live independently affected me the most. I felt nervous and out of place.”
Often, these emotions are hidden rather than spoken.
“Sometimes I express my feelings, but most of the time I hide them,” she says.
Mawi agrees.
“Goodbyes stay with you even after leaving. I usually hide my emotions.”
What young people carry back is never just luggage.
“Homemade food, village items, and memories,” Mawi says.
“Food and the environment I grew up in,” Mary adds.
Leaving home, many believe, is painful but necessary.
“Living independently builds strength and freedom,” Mary says.
Homesickness itself is difficult to describe.
“It feels like loneliness and helplessness,” Mary explains.
Mawi puts it differently:
“Homesickness feels like dusk – holding nostalgia in your heart.”
To cope, youth turn to small comforts like long phone calls, visits to relatives, or simply trying to stay positive.
After saying goodbye to everyone, we get into the car and leave. As the road stretches ahead, silence fills the space we leave behind. Sometimes, we put on our earphones not because we want to listen to music, but because we do not want to feel the ache too soon. And just like that, we return to the city. Back to routines, responsibilities, and crowded days. We gather ourselves, tuck away the homesickness, and continue life as if nothing has changed.
Yet something always stays behind and something always comes with us. The warmth, the smiles, the unspoken love, the weight of small goodbyes. Even with mobile phones and constant connectivity, it never feels the same. No screen can replace the quiet mornings, shared meals, and presence left behind in the village.
Because home is not just a place we return to but a feeling we carry, long after we have left.
