My language doesn't allow goodbyes

~orchard

The word _goodbye_ according to the Oxford Dictionary originates as follows:

late 16th century: contraction of God be with you!, with good substituted on the pattern of phrases such as good morning

God be with you on this journey you are taking. I don’t know how you will fare, but _farewell_. These words are final.

They give closure.

My language doesn’t.

There is no final parting word in Gujarati. When we part, we say આવજો (aavjo) or હાલો મળ્યા (haalo malya).

First one means "come soon" and the second means "we will meet soon." Gujarati language flat out refuses finality.

All relations are permanent — they may be stretched out across months, years, or even lifetimes.

But they are tied together by a _haalo malya_ across space and time.

There is an ice cream shop near the place I live right now.

I bought a home in another part of the town and will be shifting there by the end of this month.

The guy at the shop knows me well, I go there a lot. We have an unspoken agreement of me bringing him _paan_ every visit.

No preferential treatment, just some unspoken bond.

So when I went there today for what was probably the last time, I told him _haalo malya_ and he said _aavjo_.

Now this relationship was not significant in the great scheme of things.

It was one of the many thousands that a man makes in his lifetime.

But there was a melancholy tint in that _aavjo_. Maybe he doesn’t see it that way but I do.

Now I’ll have to find a new ice cream shop and become friends with the new staff until I move again.

Farewells are not fair, in my view.

They strip you of all hope and leave you with longing beyond human capacity.

You try to be the bigger person and wish well for the departing, but deep down you want them to stay.

For some reason you can’t tell them that.

When your language forbids you from experiencing this pain, it feels like a blessing.

Until you actually want to say goodbye.