Le 14 novembre, 2013
Independence. Such a sweet word. Having it corresponds to a rapid release of endorphins, much like the taste of rippling honey on hot golden waffles with a generous bouffant of
whipped cream.
I take a pause just to drown in the moment of ecstasy.
I always wondered like millions out there, as to how it would
feel to live on my own. My heart always gave a green signal, much to the helpless
indignation of my parents. I can happily
state now that my wondering years are over. It’s time to live!
Nicole, Karine’s mother, a gracious lady
with surprising amounts of energy, had hosted me for the first two nights in
Verdun. Surpassing a transient trifle unwillingness to let go of the familial
warmth, I made my way to “my house”, the prospect of solitary adventure now
tantalizing me no end. My address for the next seven months was to be 13 Place
Galland, Verdun 55100. A building of considerable stature, tucked away at the
back of the school, was what everybody called “le pavillon”. It was what I would call
home.
Once in the typical French structure, I
busily set about organizing “chambre 6”, my room (every wall, nook and corner
of whose was painted pink, much to my distaste). However, prettying up any space has always
been a source of joy ad infinitum for me (a very girly habit, I would say). In
that respect, I always earned a lot of appreciation at home. But here, at this
moment, there was nobody to pat me on the back for a day’s hard work. So much
for independence, eh? I settled in for my first night with mixed feelings.
The next morning however, I woke up to a
different sentiment, a different me. I walked
up to the charming lace curtained French windows and looked out. The serene
surroundings and crisp air engulfed my senses. I felt like I had achieved
something worthwhile. Standing there, all alone, in a new country, with my
family and friends miles away, I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself for
having made it this far.
That morning, the alarm clock, and not my
father, was what woke me up. Over the next few days, I had wheeled the shopping
cart across, reaching out to items neatly laid on the racks, without glancing
over at Mom for approval. The tiresome paperwork had been dealt with, and I
hadn’t delegated a single job to my parent’s employees. And having had bought the
groceries, it left me little choice but to cook. I now realize the value of hot
meals garnished to perfection, ready on the table back home; whereas here, I
don’t get a whiff of anything remotely as delicious as Indian food, unless I
move a muscle. And that includes times when hunger pangs assault my stomach.
But at this instance, every cell in my body
echoes with independence. Be it momentary, I am quite glad for the seclusion
from Mom’s chiding words (no matter what one does, in a mother’s eyes, it can
always be done better), or the daily irritation that creeps in back home. One of the biggest, mammoth, gargantuan ups
of living here is that I can step in to the house whenever I please (read-no
curfews). Though Verdun is quite a countryside town with no bustling streets or
shoulder to shoulder movement on pavements, or where people have little
intention of painting the town red come evening, I nevertheless cherish not
having to reply to my parent’s messages and calls, no doubt ordering me home. Mind,
I do like them (even though I sound like a child deprived of sufficient playing
time), but fortunately nowadays, I do not identify with the erstwhile feeling
of getting straight-jacketed.
To all those trying to shake off a similar
sentiment of being grounded, I urge you to try. Try and break the shackles. Make
the journey.
Fly!
Cheers x
