I’ve been on the road for roughly four weeks now, and I’ve learned just one little thing. Travelling, especially solo, is like playing a role-playing game. You have a backpack with limited space, an initial inventory of items, a couple of quests, and so on.
When I packed my bag for Bangalore almost two weeks ago, I put a T-shirt too many in it. There are reasons I didn’t want to be in my hometown. At that moment, the reasons felt overwhelming. So, I put my entire solid-tee-ensemble in my slightly smaller backpack.
The bus had just started to cross Gurgaon. I sat on a seat by the window near the front exit of the bus. The harsh sunlight coming in through the window didn’t add to the comfort. The conductor stood near the door wearing a well-worn flat cap, his shaved head and the soft stubble of white hair showed peeked right below the side. His face was covered in a stubble too. Traffic made the bus slow...
We’re all stories. We’re all the things we tell others. But, we’re also the things we leave out. I’ve learned that recently. I feel that is the problem when you think and believe people are the stories they tell.
I have a confession to make. I disappeared for four days last month. I’d wanted to do that for a while, and so, I did it. I finally up and left, turned all internet access off, made myself unreachable, and escaped into the hills.
I guess I am too young to say that life is overwhelming, but I’ll say it anyway. I, also accept that I am too privileged to say the same. It is arrogant on my part to claim I know what I’m doing when I write phoney posts on self-discipline or when I give disguised tutorials on how to live life.
One morning many winters ago, I decided to take a walk along a narrow path on a hilltop far away from home. It was cold, but the sun that had just begun to colour everything golden was endearing enough for me to walk up to the edge of the hill briskly. As I sat there, I noticed a five-petaled flower. A lot of grass surrounded the flower. The green spread across the hill only provided a spotlight...
Let me tell you the story of a café. It is located right in the centre of the town where nothing ever happens. Strong masonry, wooden tables, logs, simple yet spectacularly cosy, casual yet oddly fancy. If you spend ten minutes inside, you’d feel like you were inside your favourite book or movie. That is if you have a thing for subtleties in the art you consume.
It’s officially two months today since the day you left. I don’t remember much about that day. No, honestly, I don’t. All I remember are moments, and everything else is pretty much a blur. Before you judge me and give me that puppy face though, hear me out once.
When I was a somewhat younger version of the child I am today, I found an empty shoebox lying around in my cluttered house. Now as a child, I was filled with more sentiment than I was with logical thought and so I kept a rock in that shoebox. It was a small piece, but it was the start of an archive.