Checkposts

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?