The journey back to my native place

I travelled to my native place today and for the first time , the journey felt shorter than I remembered. When I was a child. The trip seemed almost endless. I would sit near the window ,watching everything outside de move past me. Every shop, temple, bridge, tea stall,vans unfamiliar road felt important . I used to count milesroeies. Without knowing why I would ask how much longer was left every few minutes even after being told the answer.

Back then, reaching my native place felt like entering another world. Today I was sitting in the same kind of vehicle. Looking through the same window, but everything seemed different. Maybe the roads became shorter. Oe maybe I became older.

I remember how excited I used to be when we got close. I could recognize certain turns before the adults did. The moment I saw the familiar shops, I knew we were almost there. I would sit up properly, suddenly awake aftervspandong most of the journey half asleep.

Now I recognize those same places for completely different reasons. There is a new building where an old shop used to be. The tea stall looks smaller. The road seems narrower. Some houses have been painted. Some have disappeared

And some people I expected to see are not longer there. That wasbthe part I wasn't prepared for.nas a child, I thought places stayed the same and people simply waited for us to return. Growing up teaches you otherwise.

The place continues existing,but everything around it changes quietly.The house is still there, but the voices inside it are different. The courtyard still exists, but the people who once filled it have grown older. The festivals still happen, but someone is always missing from the gathering. Even the familiar smell of food can suddenly remind you of someone who used to sit beside you.

I think travelling back as an adult is strange because you are not really returning to a place. You are returning to a version of yourself. The child who used to run through those rooms still exists somewhere in myomory. I can almost see her carrying a bag, waiting impatiently to meet everyone, complaining about the journey, and then refusing to leave when it was time to go home.

I wise I had known how temporary thouse days were. I wish I had understood that some journeys would eventually become memories. That some people would become photographs.That some voices would become things I tried to remember. The strangest part is that I used to hate leaving my native place.

Now, sometimes, I don't want to arrive because I know what I will notice. The empty chair. The changed house.brhe missing face. The silence where someone's voice used to be. MAybe adulthood is realising that returning home doesn't always give you the home you remember. The road can take you back. The house can still be standing. The gate can still open.

But the time you are trying to return to is gone. Ànd perhaps that is why the journey feels shorter now bi am not travelling towards the place I remember. I am travelling towards the realization that I can never become the person who first saw it again.