Away from home, who's your most dialed ?

As I near the milestone of completing one year in Bangalore, a little introspection session began in my head.

Away from home, who's your most dialed?

“Maa,” I replied without hesitation.

“Most texted?” came another question.

“Muma,” (Yep, she's upgraded to having two titles.)

“And most missed?” the third question popped up like an uninvited guest.

“Again, Muma,” I said softly, my voice fading just a bit.

Then came the silence. Not awkward, but reflective, the kind that’s loud enough to pull you into deep spiral thoughts.

"Why is it always her?" The answer felt as vast as it was simple: because she’s my anchor, my constant, my home. No matter how old I get or how independent I think I’ve become, she’s the one I keep orbiting around.

I have been living away from home since I was 16.

Life feels different now. At 16, leaving home was just a fun bus ride away. If homesickness struck, I could be home by dinnertime.

But now, at 22, living in Bangalore, home feels like a faraway dream.
It’s a three-hour trek to the airport, three more on a flight, and yet another three to reach my doorstep. And that’s only if travel gods are smiling upon me.
Add leave approvals, ticket prices, and adult responsibilities, and it starts to feel less like a trip and more like a corporate mission.

In this one year, though, I’ve changed in ways I never expected. I’ve started morphing into the one person I miss the most: my mom!

For starters, my tolerance has leveled up—towards people, situations, and even Bangalore traffic. The way she tolerates my relatives, I have leveled up my tolerance power as well. 

I’ve become more compassionate, more attentive to the tiniest details in people’s lives. If a friend casually mentions they like pasta but without cheese, guess who’ll remember that the next time we order? (Spoiler: It’s me, the new “remember it all” friend.)

Earlier, my life motto was simple: “Me first.” Now, I’m all about “Who’s hungry? What do you need? Can I help?” Who am I? Seriously, who’s putting these words in my mouth?

Oh, speaking of food, here’s another brand new thing I am doing while eating out — I catch myself thinking, “Oh, I could totally make this at home,” just like my mom used to.
Excuse me while I clutch my pearls and gasp dramatically—what has happened to me?

Last week, my colleague brought 'Aloo methi' for lunch. Now, let me clarify—I don’t like 'Aloo methi.' In fact, it’s the vegetable equivalent of a boring lecture. But my colleague insisted and with due respect, I took a bite. And then, plot twist—I actually liked it. Like, really liked it. By the end of lunch, I was eyeing her tiffin box like a kid staring at candy. Bro!! when did "Aloo methi" get her glow up?

And the changes don’t stop there. Markets and home centers used to be my kryptonite; now they’re my playground.
I get tempted by bedsheets, non-stick pans and home decor like they’re the hottest new gadgets. I’ve learned how to pick vegetables, and I’m disturbingly proud of knowing the market rates for tomatoes. Tomatoes!
Is this what adulting feels like?
Because I feel both betrayed and victorious.

But here’s the thing: all these little changes, these “Mom upgrades” feel like pieces of her living in me. The way I’ve started caring about others, the way I’ve started making a home out of wherever I am—it’s her.
She’s my forever compass, and even though she’s miles away, she’s closer than ever.

Bangalore has taught me a lot in this one year. It’s shown me that distance doesn’t weaken bonds; it makes you realize their strength.
It’s turned me into someone who appreciates the little things: a home-cooked meal, a thoughtful gesture, or even a good bargain on bedsheets.

And oh I’ve turned into a cleanliness commander too. The maid does not just cleans; I make sure she deep-cleans under the bed, behind the doors, and in all the corners. My balcony gets its own “spa day” every weekend. Who knew I could give cleaning instructions with the authority of a military general only to get a scary & mad look by the maid.

For every minor inconvenience—whether it’s an office drama or my personal life’s soap opera—I run to message her with all the juicy details.
And in return?
I get premium gossip from her side. She tells me how she’s been gracefully tolerating the people she can’t avoid (unlike me, who can just hit the "ignore" button).
That’s the moment I realize my so-called problems are so small compared to her daily chores.

Whenever I cook something, go out somewhere, or visit a new place, the first thing I do is send her a picture. Her replies range from "Looks delicious!" to "You paid how much for that?". I guess sharing these moments is my way of bringing her along on this Bangalore ride.

And then there’s the joy—pure, unfiltered joy—I get from the smallest things, just like my mom. A simple thank-you message or someone taking me out for a tea break can make my entire day. At this point, I’m basically a walking heart emoji.

So here I am, one year older, a little wiser, and a lot more like my mom.

And honestly? I think she’d be proud.

 If you’re reading this and thinking of someone who feels like home, call them. Text them. Tell them you miss them. Because life is fleeting, and so are moments.

Don’t let the chance to say "I love you" pass you by.

~With Love,

A daughter living away from home