I Regret Leaving India for USA Dreams
It’s been seven years since I boarded that flight, a one-way ticket to a dream I now realize was never truly mine. Everyone back home said I was lucky, "going to America!" The pressure was immense – escape the rat race, earn in dollars, secure a "better life." And I believed them. I truly did. I saw the gleam in my parents' eyes, the pride in their voice as they told relatives. I thought I was making them proud.
I remember the excitement, mixed with a pang of guilt as my mother silently wiped a tear at the airport. I dismissed it, envisioning skyscrapers, success, a life of endless opportunity. Now, I stare at these same skyscrapers, their cold glass reflecting a stranger back at me. This "success" feels hollow. I earn well, yes, but what have I paid in return?
I miss the chaos of Diwali, the aroma of my mother's dal, the sound of my father humming old tunes. I miss the unsolicited advice from neighbours, the warmth of a hundred familiar faces. Here, I have colleagues, not friends. Weekends are spent in solitary silence or chasing deals, not sharing laughter over chai with cousins. Every festival passes with a quiet ache in my chest, a video call a poor substitute for the vibrant reality I abandoned.
The "American dream" promised liberation, but it’s shackled me to a life of perpetual longing. I’m a ghost haunting a land that isn't home, forever adrift between two worlds. I traded soul for dollars, warmth for a climate-controlled existence. The hardest part? Knowing I can’t go back without admitting defeat, and the fear that even if I did, a part of me has been irrevocably changed, or perhaps, lost forever. I regret it all. I regret leaving.
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