August 21, 2026

There are some places we remember because we were happy there. And then there are places we remember because they taught us what happiness was not supposed to feel like.

I grew up in Delhi.

When people hear Delhi, they imagine a big city, busy roads, good schools, endless opportunities, cafés, malls, metro rides and a life that is always moving. In many ways, it was all of that. But for a girl growing up there, the city could sometimes feel very small. Especially when the people around you made you feel like you did not belong.

I was a quiet child. I liked studying. I liked sitting with a book for longer than I probably should have. I liked knowing the answer in class even when I was too nervous to raise my hand. I liked making friends, but I was never very good at making myself fit into a group just because everyone else was doing it.

And that became a problem.

School was not always the happy place adults imagine it to be. There were days when I would stand outside the classroom before the bell rang, listening to everyone laughing inside, and wonder whether I should just go home. Sometimes the bullying was obvious. Sometimes it was just small comments repeated often enough that they began to sound like facts.

The way I spoke. The way I dressed. The things I liked. The fact that I studied too much. The fact that I was not interested in the same things everyone else was.

There was always something.

I remember coming home one afternoon and throwing my school bag on the floor harder than usual. My mother asked me what happened. I said, “Nothing.”

It was never nothing.

I went into my room, changed out of my uniform and opened my textbook. That was my escape. Chemistry never laughed at me. Mathematics never told me that I was strange. A book did not care whether I was popular.

I could disappear into studying.

For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me because I hated the place where I was growing up. I wondered why I could not be like the other girls who seemed to love school, parties and their little groups. I wondered why making friends felt like an examination for which I had not prepared.

Then Mangaluru happened.

I do not remember one particular day when I suddenly fell in love with the city. It happened slowly.

Mangaluru did not announce itself. It simply made space for me.

The first thing I noticed was that life felt slower. There was rain. There were trees. There were roads that did not seem to be in a hurry all the time. There was the smell of wet earth after a heavy afternoon shower. There were little shops, college corridors, noisy classrooms and people who could become friends without requiring an application form.

I remember college corridors more than I remember classrooms.

There was something about standing outside a classroom with a friend, discussing an assignment that none of us had completed properly, laughing at something completely stupid, and then running back inside when we heard the lecturer coming.

Those moments were ordinary.

But to me, they were everything.

In Mangaluru, I discovered that friendship could be easy.

Someone would ask, “Have you eaten?”

Someone else would say, “Come, sit with us.”

And somehow, that was enough.

I remember sharing food during breaks. One person would bring something from home and within minutes, five people would be eating from the same box. There was no ceremony for it. Nobody asked whether you were cool enough to sit there.

You simply sat.

I remember rainy mornings when reaching college itself felt like an achievement. The sky would be grey, my clothes would be slightly damp, and my hair would refuse to cooperate.

Yet I would walk into class and immediately look for familiar faces.

There is a particular happiness in seeing your people after a bad morning.

You do not need to explain anything.

A look across the classroom is enough.

Sometimes college life was not beautiful at all. There were assignments that seemed endless, exams that made everyone panic, teachers who scared us, friendships that broke, misunderstandings, crushes that went nowhere and days when I wanted to throw my books out of the window.

But even those difficult days felt different.

I was no longer trying so hard to be accepted.

I was simply myself.

And somewhere between lectures, practicals, canteen conversations, last-minute studying and long journeys home, I started understanding the girl I had been before.

She was not boring.

She was not difficult.

She was not too sensitive.

She was just in the wrong place.

That realisation changed something inside me.

As a college-going girl, you are constantly being told that these are supposed to be the best years of your life. Sometimes that statement feels like another pressure. You are supposed to have a huge friend circle, dress well, attend every event, fall in love, get good grades, know what career you want and somehow have your entire life figured out before graduation.

But real college life is rarely like that.

Sometimes your biggest achievement is making one genuine friend.

Sometimes it is getting through a difficult semester.

Sometimes it is sitting alone in the library and realising that you actually enjoy your own company.

Sometimes it is finally answering a question in class after spending years being afraid of getting it wrong.

And sometimes it is discovering that the place you thought you would never leave has already become a memory.

I still remember the girl from Delhi who hated going to school.

I wish I could go back and tell her something.

I would tell her that one day she would walk into a new classroom and people would make space for her.

I would tell her that she would laugh loudly without checking who was listening.

I would tell her that she would have friends who knew when she was upset even when she said she was fine.

I would tell her that studying would not always be an escape. One day, it would become something she was proud of.

And most importantly, I would tell her that being bullied does not become your identity just because other people tried to make it one.

Delhi gave me resilience.

Mangaluru gave me belonging.

Maybe that is why I carry both cities with me.

One taught me how lonely a crowded place can make you feel.

The other taught me that home is sometimes not the city you are born in. Sometimes it is a classroom where someone saves you a seat. Sometimes it is a rainy walk back from college. Sometimes it is a friend handing you half a samosa without asking.

And sometimes, home is simply the first place where you do not have to change yourself to be liked.

For me, that place was Mangaluru.

And perhaps that is what growing up really is, not becoming a completely different person, but finally finding a place where the person you have always been is allowed to breathe.