I named this section. I chose the
words. Spirit, travelling, all mine. Yet it is now that the words fail me. It
is now, that I must own up to the deed. Yes, it was me. No, it doesn’t help.
Names, ideas, possessions, all have been stripped away to tell you this, right
now. There is only one life, one truth, one journey, one moment, one choice
that defines the one you in this time and space. Fortunately for me, all five
wrap up neatly in what is, to travel.
So what was it, that I searched
in the violet dawn that breaks at 16,000 ft of the mighty Himalayas or in the
big orange fish I spotted in the depths of the Indian Ocean? What was it that
intrigued me in the dense mangroves of the Andamans or the more festive annual
flower show in Gangtok? Who was that girl,
looking at me from behind the vibrant mirrors of her veil as my feet dug into
burning dunes of sand? And what did the old man see in my future, as he squinted
hard at my palm over bread and qahwa?
Was it Vlad with his bright red bobble hat, who cornered me into
skiing down from the highest gondola stop? What book was I reading with my feet
immersed in the cold morning-waters of the Ganges? Did bhaiyya manage to fix the car stereo which played Bhojpuri versions
of popular Bollywood songs, as he drove the spiritual to Kushinagar? Why are
the first showers of the blue Kumaon mountains forever etched on my skin? Why
can I still summon the prayer wheels from the monastery where young boys in red
and yellow, had sat down to perfect their Tibetan? Would Muskaan be taking the
ferry to school as I write? And how long can one revel in the love-affair that
was the City of Lakes?
The questions go on, quite akin
to how I imagine myself extending infinitely in spherical dimensions. To
travel, then means to reach out and seep into the cosmos. To travel, then means
to be everything I can, in a time and space.
Do I sometimes seek for a centre,
an anchor to keep me safe? Do I keep track of my affections and the objects they
pick? Do I crave for a home, a place to call my own? Of course, just like those
who never moved outside their quaint townships, never did quite leave.
It lingers, just a little too
long, before I pack my bags and hit the road again - something old, something new. To really express gratitude and dance to the sunshine, the wind, the
skies, the rain, the sounds, the bonfires, the woods, the snowflakes, the
colours, the stars, the dirt – to not have a home, to belong to them all. Some
faces have lingered - the glee that knew no fear, the dreams in those eyes, the
silent words she mouthed. Some promises made, some jars broken, some secrets revealed,
some buried.
Trust that instinct, stake what's yours, roll the dice - lose.
Tell me then, won't you repeat?
