August 06, 2005


It should have come as no surprise that, as usual, I went to the railway station to drop my favourite companion of the past two years all by myself. After which I made the customary lonely drive back home, contemplating all that has been, all that could have been and all that should be from that point on. Ignoring the poignancy of the moment, an interesting observation then dawned one me ¬– that, over time, I have always been to these places of travel to receive and send off people I have loved and cared about, but when it comes to seeing me off or receiving me, there is never anyone. I guess that says a lot for itself, does it not?

Of course, more than anyone, I know the drill – that this is not the end, but a new beginning and that life should go on and the other things that people tend to tell you when you have just been through a rough patch. But I believe that in order for that to happen, I must take the fork off from the much-traveled road, be honest to myself about what I want and where I want to get to and who I want to be. Choices, they are the bittersweet bane of the so-called free lives that we strive to live. Mix that with an omnipresent urge to keep pushing ahead to better things from what they are and you get the essential blueprint of my life.

But where is it that one really wants to be? Is it to be a millionaire? Is it to have a family, two kids, trophy wife, dog, really smart house and two cars or is it to look beyond the obvious and already done too many times over and find that bit of real estate on earth where you can be truly yourself and be with someone who would accept and understand you for what you are? The trouble, as you could have guessed by now, is to know what you really are. What if you do not know have the slightest understanding about that? What if you really do require a second party to observe, in a rather objective manner, about how things are proceeding? Being understood was never easy.

Mind fucked is a rather convenient phrase to sum up the above-said phenomenon. You can trace the origins of it to as far back as you can want to. It could be parents, childhood trauma, nuclear testing, global warming and anything else that you can put your finger on. Maybe I never got to play enough cricket as kid when I wanted to do that, maybe I could have done with a bit more support when I was growing up, maybe all I wanted was someone to stand by me and say “it is going to be okay, just hold on to me,” maybe the truth is that I can run as much as I want to but I can’t ever get around to escaping the fact that what I want is a pair of shoes that would no longer fit me. Maybe what I don’t understand is that I am looking for the wrong thing.