I had barely turned 12 when my parents packed me off to Doon

Host: The train rattled through the foothills of Dehradun, slicing through a morning mist thick as milk. The windows were fogged, and the faint smell of coal and chai hung in the compartment — a scent that belonged to long journeys and anxious hearts.

Through the pale light, the hills rose and fell like folded green silk, endless and ancient. On the seat by the window, Jack leaned against the glass, watching the world blur by. Across from him sat Jeeny, her notebook open, her pen still. She had been listening to him talk — or rather, remembering aloud — for nearly an hour.

Host: His voice carried that mix of nostalgia and fatigue, the kind that only comes when you revisit the beginning of something that shaped you — not by choice, but by circumstance.

Jack: “You ever notice how the smell of iron tracks and wet earth can take you back faster than memory?”

Jeeny: “Smell always gets there before thought. It doesn’t ask for permission.”

Jack: [smiles] “Yeah. Smells like childhood — and goodbyes.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been thinking about that story you read, haven’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah. Jyotiraditya Scindia’s. He said, ‘I had barely turned 12 when my parents packed me off to Doon School. I was transported to a world of confusion with 600 other kids, no home-cooked food, no made-to-order clothes. It was a shock, but I adjusted.’”

Jeeny: “That’s every boarding school story. The trauma wrapped in privilege.”

Jack: “True. But there’s something about his honesty that hit me — the loneliness of being thrown into a crowd.”

Jeeny: “The paradox of being surrounded and still alone.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The train whistled, long and melancholy, as if agreeing with him. Outside, a group of schoolboys in crisp blazers crossed the field — laughter rising like birds against the mist.

Jeeny: “You think that kind of dislocation ever leaves you?”

Jack: “No. It just changes shape. You stop missing home and start missing yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautifully sad.”

Jack: “It’s true. When I was that age, I thought growing up meant learning independence. Turns out it means learning how to pretend you don’t need what you lost.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Scindia meant by ‘I adjusted.’ Not that he stopped missing home — but that he learned to live inside that ache.”

Jack: “Yeah. Adjustment’s just a polite word for quiet survival.”

Host: The light shifted through the carriage — pale gold now, slicing through the fog. It touched his face, softening the lines that hadn’t been there when he first boarded.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The world praises adaptability, but no one talks about what it costs.”

Jack: “Exactly. You learn to fold yourself smaller. To fit. To please. To blend.”

Jeeny: “And one day you realize the person you became was a compromise.”

Jack: “Yeah. But it’s the only way to stay afloat.”

Jeeny: “Until it isn’t.”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “I mean at some point, you stop adjusting — and start reclaiming. Otherwise, you spend your life living like a guest in your own skin.”

Jack: “You make rebellion sound like therapy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: The sound of rain began to patter against the glass — not heavy, just rhythmic, like an old school bell tolling in the distance.

Jack: “You know, Scindia’s story — it’s more than nostalgia. It’s about how displacement builds character. About how comfort can dull us, but confusion forces us to grow.”

Jeeny: “You’re romanticizing it.”

Jack: “Maybe. But think about it — he was twelve, dropped into a strange world with rules he didn’t understand. That kind of experience forces maturity.”

Jeeny: “Or defense mechanisms.”

Jack: “Same thing, sometimes. Growth and defense — two sides of the same scar.”

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s lived in too many places.”

Jack: “I have. And every place teaches you a new language of belonging.”

Host: The wheels clacked over a bridge, the sound echoing in the silence between them — like punctuation in an unfinished thought.

Jeeny: “You think he ever stopped feeling that distance? Between the world he came from and the one he was thrown into?”

Jack: “No one ever does. The shock becomes memory, and memory becomes rhythm. You start to move to it without realizing.”

Jeeny: “So the exile becomes identity.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “You sound like that boy on the train — the one who left home and never quite came back.”

Jack: [looking out the window] “Maybe I never did.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking down the window, blurring the green of the hills — the way time blurs grief.

Jeeny: “You know what I find moving about Scindia’s line? The phrase ‘I adjusted.’ It’s so humble, so human. Not triumphant, not tragic — just real.”

Jack: “Because it’s the middle note between suffering and resilience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s where most of us live — in the middle. Not broken, not whole. Just adjusting.”

Jack: “And learning how to breathe in someone else’s rhythm.”

Jeeny: “That’s survival.”

Jack: “That’s life.”

Host: The train slowed, the wheels screeching softly against the track as they neared the next small station. The platform appeared through the mist — children in uniforms, parents waving, another beginning waiting to happen.

Jeeny: “You think experiences like that ever make people gentler?”

Jack: “Maybe not gentler. Just more understanding. When you’ve been lost, you recognize lostness in others.”

Jeeny: “So empathy’s born from exile.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe that’s God’s hidden curriculum — sending us away so we can learn how to return with compassion.”

Jeeny: “You should write that down.”

Jack: “I just did. In my bones.”

Host: The rain softened, and a faint warmth entered the compartment — not from the weather, but from acceptance. The kind that comes when two people realize pain isn’t an interruption to life’s story — it is the story.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what makes stories like his timeless. The details change — the school, the city, the culture — but the emotion stays the same.”

Jack: “The shock.”

Jeeny: “And the adjustment.”

Jack: “And the quiet triumph of still becoming yourself, even when the world rearranges you.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real education.”

Jack: “And the real faith — believing that no matter where you’re sent, you’ll find your way back to who you are.”

Host: The train began to move again, gathering speed, carrying with it the echo of their words. Outside, the hills blurred once more into a soft, endless green.

Because as Jyotiraditya Scindia said,
“I had barely turned 12 when my parents packed me off to Doon School. I was transported to a world of confusion with 600 other kids, no home-cooked food, no made-to-order clothes. It was a shock, but I adjusted.”

And in that single word — adjusted — lay an entire universe:
childhood leaving innocence, pain learning patience,
and the quiet art of finding home within yourself.

Host: As the train disappeared into the fog,
Jack and Jeeny sat in silence,
each lost in the truth that every departure,
no matter how early,
teaches the soul how to stay.