Part 7: Grappling with Goodbye

It was a regular Tuesday evening in the Tripathi household. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow across the neighborhood. Kasturi sat at the dining table, scribbling in her school notebook, the smell of Chenna Poda (a dessert made from caramelized grated cottage cheese) wafting from the kitchen where her mother was busy.

Mr. Tripathi walked in, a crisp white envelope in hand, his face betraying a mix of excitement and uncertainty.

“A letter,” he announced, holding it up like a trophy.

Kasturi barely glanced up. “Who sends letters anymore, Papa? Everyone just calls.”

“This one’s from America,” he said, waving the envelope. That caught Kasturi’s attention. She dropped her pencil and looked up, intrigued.

“America? From Uncle Ajay?”

Her mother peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ajay? What does he have to say after all these years?”

Mr. Tripathi didn’t answer immediately. He carefully opened the envelope, pulling out the neatly folded letter inside. He adjusted his glasses and began to read silently. With every passing second, his expression shifted—from curiosity to a faint smile, and then a deep furrow settled on his brow.

“Well?” Kasturi’s mother prodded, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

“He wants us to move,” Mr. Tripathi said finally, his voice carrying a mixture of disbelief and wonder.

“Move?” Kasturi asked, her voice rising. “Move where?”

“To the U.S.,” he said, setting the letter down on the table. “Ajay says the construction project he’s running is expanding. There will be more vacancies, and he thinks I’d be a great fit. He’s offering to help with everything—paperwork, accommodation, even the initial expenses.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Even the usual hum of the ceiling fan seemed muted.

Kasturi’s mother broke the silence first. “The U.S.? That’s a big opportunity, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mr. Tripathi agreed, leaning back in his chair. “You know I’ve been looking for something better. Odisha doesn’t have much to offer right now, and this… this could change everything for us.”

Kasturi, however, didn’t share their enthusiasm. “But what about here? What about our house? My school? My friends?”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she quickly looked away, pretending to fidget with the corner of her notebook.

Her mother knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Kasturi, this isn’t about leaving everything behind. It’s about starting something new. Think about it—new places, new opportunities, maybe even new friends.”

“But I like my old friends,” Kasturi said stubbornly, her eyes welling up. “This is my world, Ma. Meena is my best friend. What if she forgets me? What if…”

Her words trailed off as she bit her lip, trying to hold back tears.

Mr. Tripathi reached across the table, placing a hand on hers. “We’re not making any decisions yet, beta. This is just a possibility, not a certainty. But think about what this could mean for us—for you. You’ve always talked about big dreams, haven’t you? This could be the first step.”

Kasturi sniffled, looking down at the table. She didn’t want to admit that part of her did dream of a bigger world, of possibilities beyond the dusty streets of Khurda Road. But the thought of leaving everything familiar, everything she loved, felt like a weight pressing down on her chest.

That night, as she lay in bed, Kasturi couldn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. She thought about Meena—her laughter, their secret hideouts, the songs they hummed together. How could she leave all that behind?

The next day at school, Kasturi debated whether to tell Meena about the letter. Then she decided against it. She thought to herself,” Let the right time come, maybe who knows, dad cancels the plan to relocate and all this would mean nothing.” With some glimmering hope, she swallowed the sandwich that Meena offered her.

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