Hard days in New Delhi

Well it wasn’t really a trip, I got dragged away from home, so this post is not Traveling, but eh, Trash talk.

I stayed three years with my family in New Delhi. It was a milestone that changes my life and also, my heart.

Good things I’ve got from these 3 years? Education, really good education. Experiences. And a few good friends.

But for a while there, I thought my world was bleached out of colours.


I was a teenage, at that age people called ‘rebellious’, about to take the national exam to enter high school. I’d objected my parents decision to bring our family to New Delhi at first, because everything I have is here, but since my family is not, I left with them.

And left all the pieces of my happy childhood behind. My pets, my friend, my dream high school, my active self.

I have always hated changes, but well, life is not so easy and stable.

I got culture shock.

The positive, aka honey moon stage is so short I couldn’t even feel it, before the frustration hit me.

It was frustrated when you’re not that good with English, and people around you speak a different language (Hindi) half of the time. It was frustrated when you cannot find a single similarity in your new classmates (who’ve been really really nice, really). It was frustrated studying goddamned economic terminologies when you are struggling with the language itself. It was frustrated when there are so many things you cannot understand, and you were alone most of the time. It was frustrated when some people are racist, giggling and calling you “chinky”, badmouthing you when your contact and conversations with them are only “hello, hi, bye”.

The shock, the frustration finally came crushing down on me when I started to feel like my own family is abandoning me.

My mother couldn’t handle extremely hot weather (when you don’t even need heater in the summer because tap water is boiling hot, yep, even needed to wait a while for it to cool down enough for a bath), stomach pains was harassing her.

She told us “I need to go back home, I can’t handle this weather. I’ll come back to Delhi to visit you once in a few months.”

Changes hurt. Especially when someone forced you to change and left you to bleed alone.

In the end, she stayed. But my brother when back to our home country, unable to handle the boredom anymore (his college class schedule was a mess, Indians have to many holidays, and students were protesting something most of the days).


It took me more than two years to adjust. I could finally eat Indian food, talk out loud, enjoy the culture, the holidays, the festivals.

I didn’t travel anywhere during my time in India. My parents was in their late forties and had travel enough. And they trust no one to take me anywhere faraway lol.

What I did mostly was curling myself up in my room, lost in thoughts and hobbies. Yeah plenty of time, like I said Indians really do have so many holidays. I drew paintings, played the piano, read a bunch of books, did handicrafts, almost enjoying the life of an introvert.


I had no idea when or how I got the habit of biting myself until a big, bruising and purple teeth mark is on my arm.

I cried a lot. Well, I still cry a lot. It’s a way of releasing emotion to me.

I didn’t hurt myself that much, and the suicidal or self-hurt thoughts were just fleeting.

My high school classmates somehow created a trend of self-hurt, borrowing my paper knife to scratch themselves. Yeah just scratches, not deep enough to draw blood, but they are still ugly marks that run across their arms. That was bad, and annoying, pretty much what made me stop thinking of self-hurting for a while.


Not all days were bad days though. I do went out with friends sometimes. I got used to the weather. My teachers were nice. Living friendly with nature and animals are also good.

But until the day I left, I was still telling my parents “I want to go home”. Even now, thinking back of the old day makes me cry, and I’m not really thinking of going back there, even for a short trip.


My parents wanted me to finish college in Delhi, which means I would have to stay there alone for 1 or 2 years. And they were really trying to forced me to.

But one of my parents’ friend lost their daughter, hanged herself, when her parents wanted her to stay alone in America for 6 months. Just 6 months left. I heard that she was beautiful and smart. It was an unspeakable lost.

The incident scared my parents, and I was allowed to go home.

Things weren’t the same like 3 years before. My pets were all gone, my old drawing were lost. I’ve changed, too much.

But home is home. Home sweet home.

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