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I moved to Luxembourg in the year 2020. This sounds like a humblebrag until you’ve actually done it in the month of December. I had traded Indian sunshine, the loud, sweaty, everyone-is-in-your-business kind of vibe for a country so quiet I could hear my own thoughts – and my thoughts, at that time, were terrible company.

People love the idea of living abroad. These are people who have not spent a Tuesday afternoon watching grey turn into a slightly darker grey; whose YouTube feeds are not dominated by easy-to-cook-weeknight-dinners; who most certainly have not had to deadlift groceries twice a week. 

My great daily entertainment was the window above my desk where I could count the humans walking past our home. Three on a normal day. Four if the universe was feeling generous. Once I counted five and actually treated myself to a G&T. Often, I would find myself sitting in a café, getting a flat white in the most Instagram-able cups, surrounded by conversation and understanding precisely nothing. It is a peculiar kind of loneliness, being illiterate in other people’s chatter.

I also kept falling sick. The chores never ended. And somewhere between the laundry and the tenth identical cold, gloomy afternoon, a small thought showed up one day and refused to leave: maybe you shouldn’t have come. The locals did not help. They........

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