Sam must have been about eleven or twelve, which would have made Kabir around fourteen or fifteen. Somewhere in that in-between age where emotions are big, logic is optional, and running away from home feels like a perfectly reasonable solution.
We were living in Sycon then - a large penthouse on the fifth floor. My bedroom was upstairs, opening out through French windows onto a terrace, and the boys had two bedrooms downstairs. A comfortable house stacked vertically, like our lives often were.
I don’t even remember what the argument was about. I just remember Kabir announcing, very seriously, that he was leaving.
He packed a small backpack. Much later, I discovered it contained about ten pairs of underwear and absolutely no clothes.
Bag packed, he stood there and said, “Ammi, I’m going.”
I said, “Ok. Be safe.”
He looked confused.
“I’m going,” he repeated.
“Okay,” I said again, completely calmly, and went back to whatever Sam and I were doing - reading or playing a game, I don’t remember.
“No, I mean… I’m going,” he said, louder this time.
“You mean you’re leaving?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” I said. “Bye. Be safe.”
I always said “be safe” when they left the house - for school, for friends’ places, for anywhere at all.
Kabir stood there.
Sam and I looked at each other. Sam giggled.
Kabir didn’t move.
He sat down near the front door, his little bag placed carefully beside him, facing the exit… but making absolutely no effort to actually exit.
Sam and I carried on. We played, we laughed. Every now and then, we’d glance in his direction. Still there.
After a while, I said, “Chalo, let’s go upstairs.”
Chalo means let’s go.
Sam and I went up to my room and sprawled across the bed. Through the French windows, which opened onto the terrace, I could see Kabir outside. He was inching his way closer, slowly, cautiously, like a cat who wanted attention but didn’t want to admit it.
Sam whispered, “Is bhai outside?”
He has always called Kabir ‘bhai’ - older brother.
We kept talking. Laughing. Pretending not to notice.
Kabir edged closer. Another few inches. And another.
When he was about two feet inside my room, I finally looked up and said, very casually, “Not going?”
He shook his head.
“No. I thought I could play with you for a bit.”
I patted the bed. “Then come.”
And that was the end of Kabir’s great running-away-from-home chapter.
Years later, I told him, “If you’re ever going to run away from home, don’t tell your parents. Just leave.”
He laughed and told me the contents of his little bag.
Anyone who packs ten pairs of underwear and no clothes isn’t planning an escape.
They’re planning a return.