When Anita boarded the train to Cochin, she wasn’t escaping anything. There was no dramatic fight, no slammed doors, no speeches about needing space. She simply packed her bag, left the lunch on the stove with a note, and went.

At 44, this was her first trip alone.

No one had ever told her she couldn’t travel - it was never that obvious. But plans were always "we should go," "who will watch the kids," or "maybe next year." So she stayed. Birthdays, anniversaries, long weekends - all spent taking care of someone else’s comfort.

She just remembered who she used to be before she became everything to everyone else...!

But then her younger son left for college. Her husband got busy again. Her calendar looked oddly… blank. One morning, while clearing out old receipts, she found a torn magazine page of Fort Kochi - yellowed, folded. A clipping she’d saved twelve years ago. She didn’t remember why she had kept it, only that she had.

She booked the ticket the same day.

No big trip. No tourist checklist. Just a simple four-day plan. A sea-facing room. Long walks. And one book she’d started and abandoned five times.

At the beach, she didn’t take selfies. She didn’t look for the "perfect" café. She just sat - watched the fishing nets rise and fall, like breath. She let the sea do what no one had done for her in years - hold space.

She bought earrings from a quiet woman selling handmade jewelry. She spoke to a fellow solo traveller from Kolkata and didn’t exchange numbers. She ate alone and didn’t look at her phone. For the first time in years, no one asked her when she’d be back.

 

When Anita returned, her house was still standing. Her husband had figured out the washing machine. Her son had called once. Nothing had fallen apart.

She didn’t make a speech about her trip. But her suitcase stayed out for a week. A quiet reminder - that going away doesn’t mean running away. Sometimes it just means arriving… back to yourself.