The Suitcase Years – Delhi Poetry Slam

The Suitcase Years

Ishita Sarraf

“Congratulations! You’re accepted to…”
 I read these sentences, 
 barely believing my eyes, 
 and leap with joy,
 “Oh my god I got into my dream school!”
 “All these months of hard work have finally paid off!”
 In that moment, 
 I forget all that I am leaving behind.
 My mother’s warm blanket, 
 fights with my sister, 
 Eating meals together, 
 chatting for hours with friends 
 whom I’ve known for years. 
 I simply feel excited, 
 ready to go. 
 All other thoughts fade away into the background. 
 I don’t realise then—
 my life is now forever changing,
 I try to stuff my entire existence 
 into two suitcases,
 With zippers straining, 
 threatening to burst.
 I hop onto the 14-hour flight praying.
 While I pray for new friends, 
 I don’t realise that my family is 
 praying for my safe descent, 
 I don’t think about my mother,
 awake all night 
 for that one message— “I’ve reached.” 
 I don’t think about anything.
 At 17, I thought I knew everything. 
 I knew nothing. 
 But all that will change. 
 

Hurray! I’ve reached—
 but this isn’t what I hoped. 
 Dragging 23 kg bags up four flights of stairs,
 Deciphering American banks, 
 I realise— 
 I have to do everything alone, 
 Because everyone I trust 
 is asleep, 
 on the other side of the world. 
 Afraid of making the wrong choices, 
 I keep moving forward, 
 My gut is all I have,
 My only guide. 
 I meet people. I try.
 But I miss being known. 
 I miss home. 
 I miss old friends. 
 But my smile doesn’t waver 
 when my mother calls. 
 I know I have to adapt to this place,
 I cannot bow down 
 to the pressures that I face, 
 But with each festival 
 and celebration I miss,
 It becomes harder to stay. 
 No! I must stay determined, 
 I must become something great, 
 But my motivation is shaky,
 And then—inevitably—I break. 
 
 When I missed Diwali, 
 And heard a trembling, “I miss you,”
 In my mother’s always firm voice, 
 My will shattered,
 And it stayed broken for some time. 

The first semester has passed,
 I am home again.
 While everything and everyone looks the same, 
 Nothing feels the same. 
 I try to live the life I once had, 
 but I’m not that person anymore, 
 I now know how
 and sometimes even like to live alone. 
 I never want to leave here, 
 but I also want to go back there. 
 When did that place become my home? 
 How can I miss the place 
 that drains everything out of me? 
 But how can I stay in this home 
 when I know I am never truly free? 
 Do I have 2 homes now? 
 I move for work in the summers, 
 I keep visiting home, 
 Every year, I change my dormitory room.
 Each time I pack my suitcases 
 with things old and new, 
 I try to retain the old me 
 while making room for the new. 
 Are my suitcases my home? 
 What even is home? 
 I restart my life with my two dusty old suitcases 
 more times than I even know.
 At 21, I have become so much more 
 than that 17-year-old,
 But now that the time has come to graduate 
 and answer, “what’s next?” 
 Now as I face a new world,
 And defeat unknown challenges 
 that lie ahead. 
 I wish I were that 17-year-old girl again.
 The one who never had to leave home.


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