Left a part of me in Santiniketan .

It felt surreal to think about leaving Santiniketan just weeks before our final semester was to end. Random thoughts kept flooding my mind—student life drawing to a close, no more long hours in the journal section with its high-speed internet, no more evenings at Ratanpally, no more carefree laughter and silly pranks. Ahead lay the so-called “adult steps”—serious decisions about careers, responsibilities, and a life that felt far heavier than before. Yet, in between those thoughts, my heart ached most at the idea of missing the small everyday things—the people, the rituals, and even the joy of cycling along shaded paths that had become an inseparable part of me.

Santiniketan had given me more than just an education; it had given me seasons of life itself. Spring here was unlike anywhere else—the air filled with blooms, the red of palash flowers blazing against the sky, music echoing through the air as if the whole town had joined in to sing. Autumn carried its own magic—the clear skies, the golden sheen of kaash flowers swaying in the breeze, the anticipation of festivities in every corner. These seasons were not just weather shifts; they were emotions, they were experiences that shaped who we became. And now, to think of leaving all this behind felt like leaving behind chapters of my own soul.

I wasn’t alone in this. My classmates were going through the same turmoil. Sad posts kept surfacing on timelines, photos from our very first semester to the final farewell, each capturing how far we had come. Everyone was talking about their best and worst moments, sharing promises to stay in touch, and clicking countless pictures at farewell parties—trying desperately to bottle time into memories.

Amid the laughter, the hugs, and the photo sessions, there were tears—some flowing freely, others hidden in silence. I had never thought farewells could feel this heavy. But then, perhaps the pain of parting only meant one thing—we had truly belonged here. And that, in itself, was the most beautiful truth.

What haunted me most was the thought of leaving behind little fragments of myself scattered across Santiniketan. The first-floor orange-painted room, the balcony shaded by the amla and kaddi patta trees, the bamboo shoots swaying gently behind the glasshouse, the rooftop staircase, the black-tiled stairs, the rope swing, the benches between rooms IV and V, the French classroom corner, the chair I claimed in the library, the dining hall buzzing with chatter—each corner held a memory, a story, a version of me that I had lived and grown into. I realised I wasn’t just leaving a place, I was leaving behind a whole collection of selves that Santiniketan had nurtured. I knew that whenever I returned, I would no longer meet the same “me” again.

And yet, strangely, I couldn’t cry. Even as something inside me felt torn apart, I understood—distance isn’t what matters. What matters are the bonds we created, the roots we planted in each other’s lives, the moments etched into time. And so, as I sat amidst half-packed luggage, I whispered to myself—no matter where life carries me, a part of me will always remain here, in the heart of Santiniketan, in its spring blossoms and autumn skies.