Chapter 3
The night before my departure was quiet, but my mind was not. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks like the roads I'd soon be leaving behind. Every breath felt heavier than the last. It wasn't just about boarding a plane—it was about closing a chapter I'd never be able to return to the same way.
🪦 Final Visit to My Grandfather
The next morning, I walked to the cemetery with slow, deliberate steps. The path was lined with old banyan trees, their leaves rustling in the warm wind. My grandfather's grave stood under the shade of one of them, the stone cool and grey, with moss creeping into the carved letters of his name.
I knelt and placed my palm flat on the surface.
"Dadu," I whispered, my throat tight, "I'm going to Japan. I'll study hard. I'll make you proud."
I remembered the way he used to ruffle my hair, the smell of betel leaves on his hands, the way his laughter could fill a whole courtyard. Losing him at twelve had left a hollow space in me that never fully closed. It had been shortly after my parents' divorce, when my world already felt unstable. My grandparents' home had been a refuge then, filled with kindness, tea, and evening prayers.
Standing up, I brushed away the dust from my knees, letting the breeze carry away the ache for a moment.
🏠 Auntie and Ishfar
My next stop was my auntie's home. She wasn't blood-related to my father, but she had always treated me like her own. When she opened the door, the smell of fried snacks spilled out into the warm air. Her eyes softened the moment she saw me, but behind them, I could see she already knew why I had come.
Then Ishfar appeared—round-faced, cheerful, and always ready with a joke. But today, there was no teasing. When I told him about the scholarship, his wide grin faltered. His eyes shimmered, and before I could say more, he wrapped me in a bear hug so tight I could hardly breathe.
"Don't leave me, man," he said, voice shaking. "You're… you're my brother."
I patted his back, smiling through my own sting of tears. "We'll meet again. I promise."
💔 My Sister, Mehrima
Finally, I went to see Mehrima. She wasn't my biological sister—she was my mother's daughter from her second marriage—but blood had never mattered to us. From the day I met her, she called me "Bhai" and treated me as if we had shared the same childhood.
When she heard I was leaving, she stopped eating altogether. That day, when I entered her room, she slapped me across the arm—not hard, but enough to make her point—before throwing herself at me, crying into my shirt.
"You're my dearest person in the entire universe," she said between sobs. "Why do you always leave me? What am I supposed to do without you?"
I stroked her hair. "I love you, Mehrima. And I'll be back."
That evening, my mother joined us. Her eyes were tired, but her voice was steady. She apologized for the difficulties I had faced, then told me, "Be so kind that when people meet you, they believe you were created by God, not by society."
Her blessing was both a comfort and a burden—a responsibility I would carry to Japan.
✈️ The Flight
The airport was a blur of announcements and rolling suitcases. I waved one last time to my family before disappearing into security. As the plane lifted into the sky, my city became a patchwork quilt below, fading into clouds.
Hours passed in a rhythm of cabin announcements and the steady hum of the engines. I stared at the map on the seat screen, watching the digital plane inch across the ocean. Occasionally, I'd practice Japanese phrases under my breath—Arigatou, Hajimemashite, Sumimasen. Each word felt like a key to a door I had yet to unlock.
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🇯🇵 Arrival in Japan
When the captain announced our descent into Osaka, I pressed my forehead against the window. Below, Japan looked like a living painting—tidy houses, winding rivers, and cherry blossoms in soft bloom. The coastline curved like a brushstroke, the mountains standing behind it like quiet guardians.
Kansai International Airport greeted me with polished floors and an orderly flow of people. Immigration was calm; the officer smiled, stamped my passport, and welcomed me in careful English. Even the baggage claim was almost… peaceful.
From there, I boarded a bus to Kyoto. The ride felt like passing through different worlds—steel-grey cityscapes fading into green rice fields, small shrines tucked between houses, schoolchildren pedaling bicycles with bright yellow hats. The bus engine hummed softly, and the late afternoon sun painted everything in a warm gold.
🏡 Meeting My Host Family
The bus dropped me near a small hill in Sakyo-ku, Kyoto's quieter side. The air here was different—cooler, with the scent of pine drifting down from the mountains. I followed a narrow stone path until a modest wooden house came into view. Its sliding doors were framed in dark lacquer, and above them hung a tiny wind chime that rang with every whisper of wind.
Before I could knock, the door slid open. An elderly woman—my host grandmother—stood there, smiling so warmly that I forgot my nerves. Her silver hair was tied back neatly, and she wore a deep indigo apron over a patterned kimono.
"Anata wa koko ni kite kurete ureshii wa," she said softly. We are happy you are here.
Behind her appeared my host parents—father in a crisp shirt, mother in a soft beige cardigan. They bowed, and I tried to match their form, my movements clumsy but heartfelt. After removing my shoes and placing them neatly in the genkan, I stepped onto the tatami mat. Its straw scent rose around me—earthy, grounding, almost like a welcome in itself.
They led me to my room, a small but comfortable space with a futon neatly laid out, a low desk by the window, and paper sliding doors opening to a view of green hills. On the desk sat a small pink-wrapped box—sakura mochi, my host mother explained, a sweet for new beginnings.
Dinner was served at a low table: grilled fish with crisp skin, steaming bowls of rice, clear miso soup, and bright pickled vegetables. I fumbled with my chopsticks, earning a quiet chuckle from my host father, who patiently demonstrated the correct grip.
The conversation was slow but warm. My Japanese was broken, their English minimal, yet between gestures, smiles, and a shared curiosity, the room felt alive. My host grandmother asked about my hometown, my family, and what I wanted to study. My answers were halting, but their eyes never left mine—they were truly listening.
After dinner, I unpacked my suitcase, placing a framed picture of my family on the desk. As I lay on the futon, the sounds of the night filtered in—the faint clinking of dishes in the kitchen, the murmur of voices, and the soft chime outside swaying in the breeze.
For the first time since leaving home, I felt… safe. Not permanent safety, but the kind that says: Rest for now. You have a place here.