<p data-start="25" data-end="381">It poured on August 9 like Hyderabad was saying goodbye to me. The car ride to the airport was half-swim, half-sing-along. My friend rode shotgun, queuing our old playlist, cracking dumb jokes, and holding my hand when the jokes stopped landing. Friend farewells are the best &#8211; messy, loud, and exactly what you need when your stomach won’t cooperate.</p>
<p data-start="450" data-end="730">Inside, the luggage scale blinked at my suitcase like, “Madam, did you pack the Charminar?” Security paused at the pressure cooker on the X-ray. “Emotional support whistle,” I explained. Approved. Family calling to ask if I’d packed sweaters. In the monsoon. Classic.</p>
<p data-start="732" data-end="993">Somewhere between boarding calls, it hit me: I’m not leaving Hyderabad; I’m just opening a new tab. Albany can keep its apples; I’m bringing tadka &#8211; and I’ll learn snow, right-on-red, and maybe how not to set off the smoke alarm at tadka o’clock (no promises).</p>
<p data-start="995" data-end="1197">When the plane rolled, I pressed my palm to the window and made a deal with the city: I’m coming back &#8211; for chai, for chaos, for that ridiculous rain. Save me a seat, Hyderabad. I’m only stepping out.</p>
<p data-start="995" data-end="1197"><strong><em>So, here&#8217;s a goodbye until we meet again!</em></strong></p>
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