So, I wonder where am I at? Is this a dream? I can't seriously be here. And, by 'here', I don't mean leaving a trail of billowing dust on a plain that stretches from one corner of your vision to the other, in a place high up above. By 'here' I mean Delhi, the place that I've called home for about ten years now. I don't yearn to sleep in my bed that I otherwise yearn for every night. I don't seek familiarity in the surroundings that I have come back to. I could redo the last fourteen-days for a lifetime, minus the car, minus the cards, minus the cash. It is easy to imagine that it had a lot to do with the place. The place, while being magnificent, is just a part time player, a walk-on role, the seconds hand in a passage of time measured by the millennium.
For most, it is an exhilaration. To reach someplace where only few have gone before. Where, to reach, takes more than a bit of the ordinary, in reaching there by yourself. For me, there was no exhilaration. There was only a mutual acknowledgement, of the existence of something that is far deeper in its emptiness. Of an understanding of the agelessness of time when seen in the light of the improbable. Of the ruthlessness of hope within, when there is no premise to support it without. If, in two weeks, it is possible to find yourself by losing yourself again. I have managed to do that and now faced with the eternal echo of 'quo vadis?' ringing inside me again.
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