I thought I had it all figured out.
Moving abroad for grad school was supposed to be a rollercoaster of growth, ambition, and checkboxes. New city, new language, new people, but same old me; the girl with her head down in her books, running on caffeine, passion, and the pressure of not letting anyone down.
So when I landed in this foreign land with its clean trains and tidy streets, I was never worried about missing home. My biggest fear was submitting an assignment late, not loneliness. I was on my own, yes, but I had deadlines to meet, professors to impress, and a scholarship to justify. I had no time to feel anything but productive.
Or so I thought.
Weeks passed in a blur of lectures, late-night submissions, and lukewarm microwave meals. I convinced myself I was adjusting just fine. I laughed with classmates, snapped photos of cobbled streets, and even learned how to navigate three different grocery stores to find the cheapest lentils.
But then came the moment I never expected; not in a video call, not during Dashain when I saw my family celebrating without me, not even during those long, quiet nights when I was eating noodles in a tiny kitchen.
It came in the form of a smell.
I had walked into a local Asian grocery store, trying to find some green chili and turmeric for a rushed weekday curry. And then, without warning, the air changed. Somewhere between the dried herbs and the pickled jars, there it was; Timur.
That sharp but numbing fragrance. Unmistakable.
My breath caught in my throat.
It wasn’t just a spice. It was home.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in the grocery store anymore. I was back in our kitchen in Lamjung, the warm afternoon sun sneaking through the patterned curtains. My mom was chopping green chilies with a rhythm only she knew, grinding Timur and salt with red chilies to make a perfect achar, mixing it with a boiled aloo. I was on the dining table, books scattered, hair tied back, muttering formulas under my breath for an upcoming exam. She never interrupted. Never scolded. Just placed the food beside me with that silent love only she knows how to give.
And now here I was, thousands of miles away, staring at a spice rack with tears welling up in my eyes.
I had underestimated homesickness.
I thought it was about missing people. But sometimes it’s not a person. It’s a smell.
A breeze.
A memory so buried beneath your hustle that it only surfaces when you least expect it.
That one scent cracked open something I had sealed shut in the name of independence. I had left home, but home hadn’t left me. It was always there; quietly folded into my habits, hidden in the spices I ignored, tucked in the back of my brain where the comfort of home-cooked meals and my mother’s quiet gestures lived.
I bought the Timur that day. Not out of necessity, but as a lifeline.
That evening, I didn’t write my paper. I didn’t revise the presentation. I boiled potatoes, crushed chilies, salt, and Timur with the back of a spoon in a makeshift metal bowl. The achar wasn’t perfect. But the tears that fell into the bowl weren’t from the spice.
They were from remembering. Not just home, but the girl I used to be. The one who tried her best at everything, and who had someone always looking out for her in the background.
Now, when the wind is right and carries a certain sharpness, I pause. I let myself feel it.
Because sometimes, home is not a place or a person. It’s a scent in a store. It’s an air.
It’s a memory quietly whispering, you’re doing fine, my girl. I’m still here.
It’s a memory quietly whispering, you’re doing fine, my girl. I’m still here.
And that’s enough to keep going.