On a chilly winter night in Mumbai, I was on a local train heading back after meeting my childhood friend. Feeling a bit worn out, my eyes half-closed, I hadn’t noticed when a transwoman came and sat beside me. Then, I felt her warm hand on my forehead. I looked up to see her smiling at me, and I smiled back. She gently said, “Child, you’re too tired, aren’t you? Everything will be fine.” I nodded, and soon after, she was gone.

Before this woman sat beside me, my thoughts were in turmoil. I was mulling over on how much I don’t like this city, how hard it has been to sustain myself here, and how I haven’t found the friendships or memories I’d hoped for. Each day felt like it was dragging on, as if I were just waiting for them to pass until some far-off day when my life might feel as peaceful as the lives I read about in books. I was lost, thinking of how good it would have been to still be a child, at home watching TV, playing, shielded from all this. “Adulting sucks,” I thought, longing for the simplicity of childhood. But then I remembered how, as a kid, I used to yearn to grow up, to live the life I imagined for myself—only to find myself now disliking this version of it.

It was in these moments of wistful longing that the transwoman appeared. Even though she didn’t physically hug me, her touch felt like one—a hug I must have been needing for a long time. Her touch, so gentle, made me feel at ease, as if, just for a second, she’d lifted the weight off my shoulders. She was the embrace I needed, even though she was only there for a few brief moments.

In life, we sometimes encounter people who feel like hugs, don’t we?

I’d like to share a bit about a few people in my life who felt like a hug just when I needed it most.

First, there are my two friends from the publication department at my university. In them, I found the kind of friends I had been missing in this university (or maybe my whole life till now). We usually talk about intellectual ideas, discuss social realities, sometimes exchange book recommendations, and most days, I drop by their office just to rant about my day. Their office is the safest place for me—a space where I can vent without a second thought. Over time, I realized I had never been this honest in expressing myself before. I used to think that complaining was wrong, that it made me less responsible for my life. Even when venting, I’d twist things around until I somehow made myself to blame. But with them, I could let go of that people-pleasing persona and just be myself (unapologetically). These two friends became the sanctuary I’d long been looking for. Every time I see them and talk to them, they feel like the warmest, most comforting hug I’ve ever had.

Next, there’s my classmate from the course I’m currently pursuing. In our first year, we rarely spoke. But after spending time together during our rural practicum, we got to know each other better. Since she’s from Mumbai, she and her family started inviting me over frequently. Whenever I felt homesick, my classmate would ask if I wanted to come to her place. Her mother welcomed me like family, making sure I felt at home, especially during festivals when I’d miss home the most. Her mom treated me as her own, ensuring we both left for class with equal care. My fieldwork was close to her home, so her father would pick me up on his bike so I wouldn’t have to catch a bus or an auto. It reminded me of what my own father would do the same for me. To me, my classmate and her family are the coziest hug I could find in Mumbai, who make their home feel like my second home.

Now, I’d like to talk about the dadas (literal meaning: brothers) from my dining hall. These are the workers who cook food in dining hall. While the food there often leaves much to be desired, the people never do. Every time I enter to have my meal, I’m always greeted by 3-4 warm smiles. Some ask why I skipped breakfast, while others simply acknowledge my presence with a kind nod. On days when I was late, one of the dadas would sneak a meal from the kitchen for me. And if I needed a little extra—a slice of lemon, some veggies, or a bit of ginger—they’d gladly hand it to me, never once telling me to buy it outside. Their small gestures brightened my mood on gloomy, exhausting days. Just by asking if I’d eaten enough, they’d give me a metaphorical hug filled with care and compassion.

I could go on about many others who make my life lighter and remind me that each day is worth living. But I’ll stop here, hoping this writing helps you find your people who feel like hugs.

Ending this with a thought. “How strangely we cling to these brief, beautiful moments, as if the world is whispering secrets only we can hear. There is a quiet inevitability in how we crave these small kindnesses—hugs without arms, words that say everything without a single demand. Perhaps, in these glancing connections, we’re reminded of the softness still left in the world, and how our lonely souls, like the moon, find comfort in others casting their light. What gentle rebellions these gestures are, soft arms against a hard world, daring us to remember tenderness, to be held, if only fleetingly, by those who pass like whispers yet leave us fuller, not empty.”

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