I like toying around with words to describe places I’ve been to.
But I always forget that sometimes words can’t even begin to describe the pure exhiliration of being free, of finally, finally, escaping the drudgery that has become my life.
The hills became my first refuge. Millions of stars, an old house with creaking rafters and an adorable garden, friends and laughter, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, 300 stairs and stories about the Cauvery from an old thatha. It felt new. It felt strange. It felt good, to be out there, to be doing things on our own. We awoke with the scent of coffee, and slept with the history of the place hanging over us, not unpleasantly, not unbearably, but almost tangible, almost as though we were actually living it.
And then to another. A city as far apart from the hills as to my own. And yet, almost the same. A city with aeons of culture and history backing it. A city with old friends and memories reborn. A city with beautiful museums, 700 stairs, fake film sets and bangles of every hue and shade. A city of noise and haggling and traffic and minarets and domes and mahatma gandhi statues. A heady mix of culture and urbanization, without, however, the rampant, ugly, commercialization that so characterizes my own.
And now. Back here. Sitting at home, thinking about the past week. Things have happened in these past few days, things have changed in me. I’ve learnt, I’ve unlearnt, I’ve said, I’ve wished things unsaid, things undone. I’ve seen, I’ve been blind. And maybe, that was the best of all. Maybe, that’s what travelling is all about.
And it isn’t over. Not by far. Day after I’m heading back to the hills. And maybe later next year, towards the coast. The world lies ahead of me. And I cannot wait to experience it.