“Aina, Tina , you have a call!”
Every Thursday or Friday, without fail, those words would echo through the corridors of our student hostel. It was our weekly lifeline, our connection to home. It was often Papa who spoke first, in my vague memory, and then Amma. Her voice was filled with concern, often asking if we were eating alright, for she knows how much of a lazy lad I can be about food.
At just in 3rd grade, I would scamper up the stairs, leaving behind the remnants of our breakfast in my eagerness to reach the phone. Tina, two years my senior and always the responsible one, would follow at a more measured pace.
One particular Thursday (or was it Friday?), Papa’s voice crackled through the receiver, warm and familiar despite the miles that separated us – Thailand, where Amma, Papa, and our younger brother resided—a world away from the confines of our hostel room.
They asked if it was okay if they went to Pattaya Beach Island, a place we had planned to visit together later during summer break once we were back home. We said something like, “No, we can go there later, together.” Slowly, Amma said they were already there because Papa’s friends insisted, and Achu wanted to go as well, although Amma wasn’t keen on it. She reassured us that we could go again. Tina wasn’t pleased, and I remember how her face changed—frustration and sadness mixing as she asked why they even bothered to ask if they were already there.
But as the call ended and we returned to our daily routine— games in the hostel playground with older friends (or maybe not friends), study hour (when I barely studied anything) and dinner followed by bedtime—the absence of Amma and Papa weighed heavily on our young hearts.
At bedtime, everyone, mostly the 5th graders and 7th graders, as they were in the majority, would talk about their day. The room warden would perform Namaz, tell us some random stories, and ask us all to sleep. The rule was to keep our beds apart, but slyly, after everyone was asleep, Tina and I would merge the beds and sleep hugging each other, for we couldn’t sleep apart.
Most nights, I would wet the bed. Poor Tina had to wake up in the middle of the night, feeling the damp cloth, and wash the bedsheet. Thatha, the room warden, would scold us if she caught us using her bathroom, so we had to be careful. Tina, merely in 5th grade, occasionally expressed her frustration through a pinch, and I would sob. I couldn’t blame her; she had to act beyond her years, taking care of me. I must have been a handful for her, I assume.”
Yet, in the midst of our longing, there was solace to be found in each other’s company. Tina, wise beyond her years, became my protector, my confidante, as we navigated the challenges of hostel life together. Though our stay was brief, lasting just 10 months or less, it felt like an eternity.