When you are not the one who says goodbye

It was a familiar routine and I had lost count of the number of times I had done it. We stood before the departure gates making small talk, for some goodbyes are so immense you can’t actually say what’s in your head. You can’t say, ‘You are my only friend here, don’t go’ or ‘How will we manage without you?’

A friend of ours was leaving after fourteen years of staying in a place he never wanted to. For him, it was a journey of freedom and we could see it on his red peaked cap, jauntily perched on hair that had turned grey waiting. His corporate briefcase had been shed and in its place was a well-worn rucksack. It was almost as if he had moulted the skin he wore for this city and now showed-off different, bright new colours, in preparation for a long awaited journey.

My partner and I were immensely sad. We had know him over twenty years and this was the first time we were in the same place. We tried to look happy for him and not be those selfish cretins who only want what’s best for them. As I lifted my hand to wave that final goodbye I thought about how many times I’ve done this.

During my childhood we stayed near a railway station and at least twice a month, people would come home with their suitcases. They would first feast on some yummy fried snacks, which amma would whip-up in a jiffy. The air would smell of puris, vadas frying or an ada sizzling on the black dosa stone and the mixie would whirl loudly in the background, creating chutney in colours of red, green and white. The traveller while stuffing his face would update us on where and why he was going. Then, the three of us, my father, mother and I, would accompany the traveller, buy platform tickets and wait till he boarded the train and it left the station, chugging away. I’d see the brown retreating back of this large, winding metal snake and wish with all my heart I was the one on it. I hated being the one on the platform who waved.

My nephew’s best friend was leaving the country. All of us piled into the car and as we drove to the airport, we could hear the utter silence of hearts breaking. Both the boys, aged 6 and 7, sat quietly next to each other, their eyes frightened unsure about how to deal with such an adult emotion of pain. After we came back from the airport he didn’t bawl, he just sat silently in his room and from that day he has never come with us to say goodbye to anyone.

I think one of the reasons saying bye is so heartbreaking, other than missing the person, is that when you watch someone go, you are acutely conscious that you are the one left behind. Though you may actually enjoy your life, you are the one still stuck in it, while the other person has managed to unglue themselves and fly towards something different.

Still Figuring It Out is a funny, sad, questioning take on adulthood that appears every Saturday on Asianet Newsable. Arathi Menon is the author of Leaving Home With Half a Fridge, a memoir published by Pan Macmillan. She tweets at here. The views expressed here are her own.