Abi
They say a city becomes beautiful only if you arrive with a heart willing to be changed.
I arrived in Pune with two bags, a half-torn bucket list, and a mind tangled in homesickness.
The train journey had been long. Hours melted into hours as the green of Tamil Nadu slowly gave way to the dusty browns and wide skies of Maharashtra. There was something oddly cinematic about it — as if I were the main character in a movie that hadn't decided its genre yet.
I wasn't alone. I had company — six girls from my college who were also posted in Pune for internships. At first, we barely spoke. It was awkward — like walking into a room filled with versions of yourself you hadn't yet met.
But something about train compartments breaks down walls. Maybe it's the shared boredom. Or the quiet solidarity in passing around puliyodharai wrapped in banana leaves.
Varsha — who was the most funny— was the first to ask me a serious question,"Are you scared?"
I nodded. No lies. No bravado.
"Me too," she whispered. "Let's survive this together." And just like that, I had my first Pune friend.
Our PG was located in Wakad. The kind of place where buildings tried to touch the sky and street vendors shouted louder than your ringtone. The PG was called Sanjana Stays — a four-storey building painted in the kind of yellow that looked like it had seen better monsoons.
My room had three beds. One was mine. One was Varu's. The third belonged to a girl named Khavya who arrived a day later with two bags and a thousand questions.
"Do they give curd during lunch here?" she asked first. I liked her instantly.
That first week in Pune was a whirlwind. I was trying to understand the city, the people, the auto meter system, and my own shaky identity in the middle of all of it.
Wakad smelled like petrol and fried food. The evenings were breezy, and the sky often looked bruised in pinks and oranges.
Every morning, I took a shared cab with my new roommates to our IT office in Hinjewadi. The company felt big. Too big. Everyone walked fast, talked fast, and dressed like they had runway shows between meetings.
But I was starting to find my pace.
Varsha had a way of talking that made you feel like you were someone worth listening to.
Khavya was loud, funny, and reminded me not to take myself too seriously.
In between work, cafeteria coffee, and long nights under a squeaky ceiling fan, we began sharing bits of ourselves. Where we came from. Who broke our hearts. What we wanted to do with our lives if we ever figured them out.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn't the quiet girl in the background.
I was Abi — the girl who danced to kuthu songs while brushing her teeth. The one who tried pani puri from a roadside stall and didn't cry when it burned her nose. The one who actually said yes to a weekend plan.
My bucket list had been written in a rush during second year — a mix of silly, brave, and strangely emotional things.
Go campingSleep under the starsMake 5 real friendsSay no without feeling guiltyWear a saree and feel pretty
By the end of that month in Pune, I had ticked off three.
We went trekking in Lonavala one weekend. It was muddy and exhausting and full of leeches, but I laughed harder than I had in years.
We set up a tent near Pawna Lake. I didn't sleep much that night — the ground was uneven, and my back hurt. But the stars — oh, the stars — they made me feel small and infinite at the same time.
On the way back, Khavya said, "You've become different , Abi."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Like… full version unlocked." That line hit me like a truck and stayed with me.
Because maybe Pune wasn't just a new city.
Maybe it was the place where I could finally become someone else — or maybe just more of myself.
Not the girl waiting for a reply.
Not the girl who rereads old Dora drawings.
Just a girl with wind in her hair, real friends by her side, and a tiny hope she'd left something behind so she could find something ahead.
Even if it wasn't love. Even if it was just… life.
And for the first time in forever, that felt like enough.