Hello! Last October, I gave a TEDx talk at my Alma Mater. And it’s out! Check it out if you’ve got time?
As I reached the SBI ATM to validate change of mobile number, I felt something familiar. I saw people’s faces — girls, boys walking on the footpath, taking off their shoes in front of the Gurudwara that makes traffic scenes in front of it because its entrance touches an already narrow road. Traffic Policemen bored to death in their shelter stand at the round about, engaged in conversations with acquaintances. People standing with their Jholas plunging from their shoulders, waiting for their bus to home. It felt familiar because there’s a certain innateness about places looked over at in one generation. It essentially doesn’t change. Years ahead now since I first came here, it’s like there is something in the air that binds people. It’s like that air is a cage of saturated solution of brine, unless a new person — unaffected by the previous person — would make a new one, it would always be saturated in the same way. Adolescents learn from the way they see people around, act like them, copy them, realise that the way to be cool, is the way to be adamant, ignorant, bossy, egomaniacal, thuggish, indulgence in hooliganism. Children actually learn from their fathers and mothers to fight, literally, banging people’s heads with an iron rod or the defamed and infamous hockey sticks. This is where I’ve grown.
There’s this whiff of air about the place that gives out the nature of the presence of the people there — a very general, averaged feeling. When I went to Maihar, I felt it there too. Youngsters were rowdy, elder people either edgy from the day’s work, or sometimes really nice. Like the fruit vendor we met who turned out to be much nicer than we thought. Also like the odd man we met in the train who wouldn’t let us read, even with only our small seat lights on, at 9 pm in the night because he had to sleep — such peremptoriness.
Places, in their jaunty purpose to exist, at every moment leave behind an ink of acquaintanceship. Like hands shaken with a stranger on the road, feeling bizarrely palsy-walsy in the manner that induces a part of a memory without telling you. Whether that part was false, we’d never know. There will never be a way to known. The suddenness of how a place paves a way for you to form an opinion about it, just by being in it, is something I’m struggling to find words for. This feeling is different for different people, obviously. There’s a comfort in knowing a place like this, taking your own time to let it seep in you, while you walk around wondering what this feeling is, and why.
Songs to listen to while reading this: With Friends Like These, album by Bangalore based band Short Round
Yesterday was a couple of lovely people’s birthday. Both of them my classmates and friends from childhood. Now, the thing about Nahan, where we all grew up together, is that roaming around on the roads and market with your friends is what you bond over. Of course there are other things to bond over, like common habits, likemindedness, booze. But Nahan, has this air of drift, everybody is a makeshift vagabond in the evening, wandering about everywhere.
But I’ve always missed on the long chattering walks with friends. I used to be that kid who’d want to play cricket or basketball after coming home. Most of all, I hated (and still do) walking on foot in the public. I seldom talked to many of my classmates because there would be chee girls, ehww boys! playful rivalry environment, or I’d simply wouldn’t have things to talk about. And I can’t talk to people when I do not have something to talk about. I can’t conjure up something funny out of the mundane. I’m bad at small talk. When I talk, I genuinely make the person with whom I’m talking know that I’m open to listening anything and everything that they have to offer, without judgement, without fear of passing the information to other sources. I can be the sink which keeps accepting all the water and vegetable leftovers from the meal plates, without complaining. And at the same time, I can share things myself without hesitations or holding back.
But one way or the other, I did miss bonding over my school friends. I’d be honest, I didn’t really have many common things to talk about. I wasn’t interested in who was interested in whom much, which used to be like the getting go talk point. I was smitten with girl(s) yes, but I didn’t really talk much about that either. I only used to share much with Ishpreet, who used to be, in many manners, like I was – most of the days, we were reserved to the surroundings of our houses after school, because, I guess, we like it that way.
The proof of this lack is that I didn’t get called much after I left. Diksha was the only person who kept in touch all the while. Like 9 years! I kept in touch with many other people sure. I guess that’s what time does no? I saw it with the school friends, then college friends, people whom I spent 4 years together with, are in their own world now – working and enjoying with their new friends in the cities far away.
I did miss out on many times I could have hung out with friends. Although in the last 2 months, I’m really lucky to have been spending time with a bunch of 🍯💛 (read honey heart) people.
Today, on a belated birthday, Lalita, and Akshay gave us (me and Diksha) a treat retreat. We went on a drive to place called Dockyard. They share their birthday on 3rd November, which was yesterday. I didn’t give them anything, which I feel a little embarrassed about. I gift people I care about hand written letters on their birthdays, written with a fancy ink pen ( sometimes even quill when I feel fancy ), on a fancy hand made paper wrapper in an envelop which is not very fancy most of the times ( which is alright ). But then again, we had never really bonded over years, I didn’t know about their feelings much, their history, their family, little things that make difference. So I didn’t really have much to write about. I mean I could have written about things I know, but I didn’t want the letter to be about me, I always make sure it’s about them, what they have given to me and the others. So I guess this blogpost would be a crude replacement for that gift.
I’ve two friends in life that when you are with them, you can’t keep your mouth and tummy shut – they make you laugh so much. Akshay of course, and a college friend from Mohali, Ravinder.
We did have things to talk about, when me, Diksha and Lalita went to excursions a couple of times, but it couldn’t be anything like today. Akshay is like the glue everybody direly needs when you have to submit practical files. He bridges the gap between people, or at least us school friends, so effortlessly and flawlessly, it feels like a breeze stroking the hair on a wonderfully cold winter evening.
Reminiscing back through the time lane of memories is always fun. Recalling the humorous incidents – the funny fights with teachers, kurkure slaps, awkward confrontation with teachers in the toilet, watching Anshul unintentionally lift the scooter up from the front while little children cheered the scooter to an invisible victory line, while Anshul amusingly cursed them, watching Manav getting beaten up by numerous people, including an old man from whose scooter we stole a little petrol from once, watching Varun’s wrath upon girls, watching Anubhav’s impersonation of female voice. Remembering the time I used to be smitten with Lalita and the silly little things I tried to get her attention.
Akshay asked me while we were eating ice cream, why I was looking sleepy. I wouldn’t say I was sleepy, I was just feeling like closing my eyes and enjoying the presence of some friends I’ve happened to love all throughout the journey since we started together in the school. Presence for me is louder than words, louder than memories, louder than pictures and photographs. When I’m silent and I’m listening and I’m smiling for no reason, know that I’m enjoying your presence, your company like crazy and that I cherish it more than the present moment itself.
The most priced moment for me today, was when I drew chairs for everybody to sit closer. That’s when everybody started recalling memories from the school. They were priceless 💛. It’s so relieving to see Diksha laugh! It’s almost contagious. Lalita’s naturally glowing face, eyes, teeth, smile, Akshay’s carefree (yet full of care) and friendly demeanour. They all are contagious.
A month ago, I attended a poetry workshop by one of my favorite spoken word poets, Rochelle D’Silva. The way she starts her workshop is by hugging every attendee for a loooong time, like really long (talk about 3-4 long minutes). It was the longest hug I’ve ever had. It was so warm and peaceful! From that hug onwards I realised hugs are hugely cathartic in nature, just like laughter. Hugs are a natural therapy. Perhaps because hearts come together and exchange silent beat conversations, which they are otherwise not able to do. I wish I could hug Akshay, Lalita and especially Diksha (because she is such a 🍯💛), but here in Nahan, a hug like that is easily likely to be mistaken as something else, and a potential source of gossips and rumours. So I refrain from it. But I really wish I could. It’s one of the few ways for me to tell people how much I love them.
But anyway, it doesn’t matter. With friends like these, having your back, even if you meet them and talk to them (or mostly listen 😆) after ages, it’s invaluable.
We moved to a small two bedroom apartment (It’s total space is equivalent to an average one bedroom apartment). We have about 5 families in the neighbourhood. The people who live right next door, in a big bungalow, are the sneaky and clever ones. They are hideous, avoid confrontation, prevaricate to work around lies about almost spying on us for no reason or purpose at all, and just always eager to know what’s going on in other people’s lives, especially the lady of the house.
Now I do not mean any disrespect, but I’ve seen many women living in small hill towns like mine, having had their share of being bogged down by thousands of years of patriarchial culture. I think what this has led to is that some of them have tried to find a way to have power over something. Unfortunately that something sometimes turns out to be just forthright gossiping, firing rumours and so on and so forth. Falsified things, that gives them power over how particular people are percieved by others. It is a terrible super power to have. It’s like that chinese whisper game, but in which the sentences are twisted intentionally. It’s annoying.
Nahan, is weird, in that, it’s been several years now, since the internet revolution, but this and many such mountain places are still primitive. There are no new businesses being set up. Property and shops are the only two main businesses here. There aren’t even properly used cyber cafes here. Year after year, teenagers grow up here, with the understanding that being macho is very important in life. This coming from some parents themselves. The language is weird here. It’s neither Himachali, nor Haryanwani, it’s like a surreptitious combination of both. It sounds like one is schizophrenic. People are ready to fight for the smallest thing, like it was something their lives depended on. Big bull shit values of the collective town. I wonder if this was how the place was when it was ruled by the famous King of here.
The only thing that keeps me sane here, is the wind that flows in a particularly secluded part of the town. Thankfully that is where I’ve always lived, though in different houses.
I’m going to leave this town soon, for good, better.
There is an old family house, built on flattened out contours on the left side of a mediocre mountain, that is now void of its makers. One was a nice man, but a drunkard, who had taken his own life insidiously. His wife, everybody called her Maati (माती), was a giving lady. Their son, a little mentally challenged, also a drunkard, does the job of a peon in a government office. His wife, a sturdy lady, who has always taken care of her family as much as possible switched between many professions, tailoring being one of the majors.
When I used to depend on the bus floor height to be able to see people’s faces, I used to hang out in the two rooms whose entrance doors stood parallel, perpendicular to the way to their house that came from upstairs. And just as one would go up and stand on the last stair, they’d be prone to a state bus crushing them over. I wonder at the similarity of cobwebs of hyperlinks on the internet and distant relatives. How when you’ve clicked and opened so many of hyperlinks, you forget from which web pages you landed on this particular one. How after our grand, great parents die, some relations become distant by this very event. Slowly they start becoming almost non existent, only remembered when something really important happens and our parents force us to attend the celebrations/mourning of that occasion.
I never went back to that house again. I did however see my cousin from time to time in the market, mostly with his girlfriend who was our school junior. Oh, did I tell you we live in the same small town? But I never tapped on his shoulder for the fear of awkwardness and lack of things to say that would follow.
He has two sisters. The eldest one studied to get her PhD and is happily married. I didn’t attend her wedding. Haven’t talked to her for over 10 years. The other one is on the verge of getting married. I used to really like her when I was a kid. If those feelings were to follow in adulthood, people would have cursed my thoughts deeming it taboo and downright wrong.
But if you think about it, aren’t we all each other’s distance relatives?
It was an impromptu plan, master minded quickly by father, acted upon immediately by us three, me, Aryamann and mum. We didn’t even know where we’d be staying intermittently or which places we’d be visiting. We just knew the basics of the road we were to embark upon, a long one. We had two broad destinations in mind: Chandra Tal Lake, and Leh. That’s it.
We started from Shimla in father’s car and reached Rampur that afternoon. I later got to know by reading some pages of this book later in Leh, that this town’s full name is Rampur Bushahr. I had mistook it as a separate name of the town in the ancient times because it was written as “Rampur-Bushahr”. So it felt like something written to symbolize a name that is no more existent now, or so I took it for no particular reason.
One of the things that not planning the trip implicated was that I would not be able to look up the rivers beside which we’d be driving (a lot). The reason being simple, there wouldn’t be any cellular networks. So while I write this, I’ll track down the river names on Google Maps. The river that would be running along for quite a while until Reckong Peo and beyond (up until the confluence of Spiti and Sutlej River, near Khab) would be Sutlej river.
On the way to Reckong Peo, we stopped at a road side when our driver spotted a snow leopard deep down the mountain chasing a cow. As soon as he sensed he was seen, he hid somewhere before anybody else could see it.
We stayed at HPPWD Rest house Reckong Peo, and something unexpected happened there. When we were being served dinner by the person in charge, he and my mother shared a few remembrance filled glances. Soon it was revealed that he used to work as a substitute household help in our house 20 years ago in Thanedar, near Narkanda. It was so good to meet with people who brought me up for my few initial years, even though I didn’t know them much. It was exhilarating.
We had forgotten the toiletries: soap, shampoo, tooth paste etc… We took the leverage of open shops near Reckong Peo’s (where we stayed the first night) Bus Stand, at 7 am in the morning to get all of them. At Reckong Peo I saw a couple of things that I wrote down in a beautiful diary gifted to me almost unsolicitedly by Kajol Runwal. I’ll jot them down exactly as I wrote them.
A cow is licking the top of a road traffic cone divider. After licking now, she’s helping herself scratch parts of her face where its itching. I’m just thinking about so many items in the world that have been accessed by so many different creatures before being held in hands by humans and used for different purposes.
I saw a small boy in a school dress climbing up the stairs to his home. My guess is that the primary government school is a few km away so that he has to walk to and from it daily. He was alone, skipping steps as a challenge, singing something to himself. It’s a pity I feverishly feel alone sometimes.
I left my white towel in the rest house there. Least useful information, but well, I did hear words of inadequacy for remembrance from my mother for it. So.
At night my brother and I discussed about something very intriguing. We talked about how we as a human race are bubbled in the air of time, and that we simply do not have the means to see out of that bubble (the physics of things for example) unless someone from the outside, outside of time, finds a way to impart that information. This discussion went on for well over an hour.
The next morning we headed out towards Losar, a small village in Lahaul and Spiti District, from Reckong Peo. It was a tiring journey, the roads were bumpy, wretched, dilapidated. But since our driver was super cool and skilled, we didn’t feel a thing. One thing that was very weird during the last stretch of 30 km was that, even though there were no other cars and our car windows were shut, invisible minute dust kept coming in from somewhere. Here’s an updated map of the places we stayed either overnight or for a while.
On the way we detoured about a couple of km to see the Nako lake. It was small little village where people grow their own vegetables. A peek:
We ate paranthas with freshly plucked cauliflowers right out of their yard and also met late teen agriculture students from Hyderabad who were on a research project traveling to villages around.
One thing that you should keep in mind while traveling through this route from Kinnaur is to take care of your neck and back if they are problematic. Regular stretches during the journey, and proper exercise for a whole week at least before starting could do good.
The Kaza Stretch was the most amazing valley I saw the entire route, probably next to the Leh straight stretch of roads, and partly because the sun was lit so beautifully in the evening there.
We stayed in HPPWD rest house in Losar. Our driver was a cook about 12 years ago. Since the dinner wasn’t prepared, he and the rest house in charge both cooked wonderful Matar Aatu for us. The peas were freshly plucked from a cultivation few km ahead of Kaza. They had a sweet little baby accompanying them in the fields. The people who gave us those 3-4 kg of Peas refused to take any money. Such nice people, they only took smiles for the price.
// photo of the kid in the field few km ahead of kaza.
In Losar I saw the most beautiful sidereal night sky I’ve ever seen. Losar was pitch dark at night, it’s a super small village with perhaps not more than 200 people living. It was pretty chilly in the night as well. I hurt my neck craning upwards too much. I just couldn’t help it. Even though I had no idea about the celestial system I was seeing, I just dazzled in the unknown points in the sky.
If you want to know what’s in the night sky there’s a good coursera course (Introduction to Astronomy, Duke University, Edx) that I never completed.
From Losar, the next day we set on to the most scariest dirtiest motor able road I’ve ever seen, probably will ever see. We crossed the Kunzum la pass, and took a turn towards Chandra Tal Lake. One of most picturesque lakes I’ve seen (I’ve seen so few). A young group from Israel was there with us. I think most of them were there to chill out and smoke things. We three trekked the hill that extends til the end of the lake on the left side of the lake. Then on a rock, overlooking the latter part of the lake (and its end as well), I set my eyes closed and got lost. When I opened my eyes and looked back, the person who had trekked with me uphill had slept on his rucksack. We bade the lake good bye.
When I visited the lake it was cloudy and windy. But when one of my college senior friend went it was neither. See:
The beauty you see in me is a reflection of you. ~Rumi #spiti #ramsar #wetlands #himalayas #transhimalayas #himachalpradesh #himachaltourism #chandertal #lake #lakesofinstagram #reflection #crystalclear #mountains #mountainlife #hippieinhills #natgeo #travelwithshenaz #natureporn #mountainlovers #incredibleindia
It’s always advised on this road to all the motorcyclists and cars alike to start early from where ever you are staying because you’ll find many Nalas in your way. Nalas are wide gorges and ravines clubbed together to make something impassable for a vehicle. On our way there were too many difficult Nalas to cross despite the fact that we started around 7 every day. One such Nala, while going to Jispa from Chandra Tal Lake is famously called Paagal Naala. We caught up with it at around 4 pm. There was already an Innova waiting there for half an hour, its driver confused as to how to cross over. A biker from Bangalore, whom we had helped a couple of times before in the way got superbly stuck and was rescued by a couple of foreigners. But their accent they seemed like Brits but I couldn’t be sure. The picture below is of that Paagal Nala (Mad Gorge), but it doesn’t do justice to show how dangerous it was. Nonetheless, here:
Our driver and the other had to put many rocks to prevent both of the Innovas’s (we had it too) diesel tanks from bursting out by bumping to the rocks in the water below. The biggest problem of a Nala is, if you are in a car and you find yourself stopped in the middle of it, stuck, your shoes and socks would get wet, because you’d have to get out and push the car in the water. Luckily both of the cars passed. You can also see in the picture the same motor cycler from Bangalore being aided by a couple of foreigners (I hate this word suggest me an alternative).
When traveling from Chandra Tal Lake to Jispa, we found a stay period of 2 hours when a JCB had to put up a pipe to route water from another Nala. I took the liberty of time to dive into myself again. This is after I meditated for half an hour.
And this was the view I woke up to, vast pains of absolute big and small rocks.
In this picture I’m sitting on a rock that is at least 15 ft tall. I didn’t click the picture of it.
I did however capture a very very red rock.
We reached Jispa late evening around 7:45 pm. As always we stayed in the PWD rest house, thanks to father for all the PWD pre bookings. Jispa though, unlike the other PWD rest houses that housed us, wasn’t well maintained, the person in charge didn’t properly know how to cook, so we took it to a dhaba nearby. The river (bhag river) beside which Jispa is located moves really fast (as is apparent from its name itself). Here see for yourself.
Either on this route or from Manali, you’ll often find this particular thing written on the Border Road Organisation Road Boards.
Shooting Stones Area Ahead, Please Drive Carefully
Guess what could be a band from Kinnaur/Lahul Spiti/Ladakh be called? You guessed it right. Shooting Stones. Thanks for bearing the PJ.
Throughout the route, we kept seeing superbly apt roadside boards other than the one above, that helps a driver/rider keep alert while on the road. Some of them are as follows (BRO = Border Roads Organisation, but for pun, please read it as brother).
What about the places with no names, in between the places that have names?
We started from Jispa early in the morning as always. The first 150 km or so stretch was
Wretched, Cracked, Dilapidated
but the remaining stretch is what motor cyclists come Leh for. Makkah Road!
Through out the way, on the banks and river beds you’ll find remarkably magnificent partial erosion of soil leading to temple like sand structures like this:
Few minutes to Leh, there was a restaurant called Drunk Restaurant. I think it intended to be Druk (meaning Dragon) Restaurant.
…to be continued in part 2
A week ago, I wrote When Family Becomes A Distant Memory. Khawaja Musadiq, a wonderful wonderful poet turned it into a poem, thousand times more beautiful. Although he doesn’t know the context and details I wrote the blog post in, nonetheless he wrote so beautifully.
surviving on a bleak glimmer of h o p e ,
tormented by l o n e l i n e s s
the grandmother is kept awake
with no one to hold down her fears.
a village all forgotten,
where the recently harvested wheat fields
or the dauntless cemented roads,
didn’t make one bit difference to us–
young afficianados of cricket.
my grandmother, a woman–
possessing iron steel c o u r a g e
married off at 16 as a young sapling,
widowed at 35.
barely eating, living in desolution
hoping to see her young ones
lead a better life. but
never to be subjected to a b a n d o n m e n t.
yet she remains to be the epitome of,
exceptional countenance and inspiration.
love happened to father. about time too.
paranoia hit grandmother hard.
a persistent belief — that her daughter in law
was trying to bring the mother-son duo apart.
if only it were so gullible to be torn apart!
in the house. taunts and insults,
became quite too Common
unable to put up an indefatigable
show of acceptance.
mother gave up!
grandma was finally subjected to
a b a n d o n m e n t.
financial support didn’t make up for it.
father found his peace in alcoholism.
eaving mother s h a t t e r e d.
who was averse to the concept of change.
after all the being deprived the will to live
peacefully life altering.
father continues to be driven
by the lust of liquor.
despite mother’s despise and detest.
the conflict only resulting
in a war of words.
to fall out of love — they chose the answer,
for their reluctance to accept
the sinking bridge of marriage.
mother finally consoled by infatuation.
and so came into being
our desolate lives.
but i no longer dwell in it
I’m on a motorbike a lot. I’ve my father’s Royal Enfield (a.k.a Bullet a.k.a Bullt (Punjabi folks would understand)), and I’ve a Yamaha Fazer. This noon when I got out to run some errands, I found an unusual lot of people on their two wheelers with their headlight on during the daylight. I get irritated with a couple of things too much. One is
This,sort or this ,sort of incorrect comma punctuation.
And the other is people forgetting to switch off their headlights at night. I’ll spare what I do in the former. In the latter I signal people with a blinking gesture of a hand insinuating that their headlight is on. Sometimes they catch what I intend with the hand gesture sometimes they don’t. Today NOBODY did. Instead they took my gesture as a sign of an acquaintance having just recognised them, and in their complete and utter apparent memory failure, they waved me back in the fleeting time. I laughed my ass out on the bike when this happened for the third time in a span of an hour. 😂
So that’s that. If you have written something that you’re wanting people to read, I’d love to be one of them. Shoot your link in the comments!
Okay, so nails. This is a story of nails. Not necessarily just mine, but it is a story of nails. Nails, the dead cells elongated at the tip of our fingers and toes. Nails, which I almost always cut in time. Nails. Okay, so nails.
I started cutting my own nails when I was in 7th grade. Before that mother was in charge. Hand nails’ cutting was a breeze. But when the toes would be up, I’ll take my face away from both the nails and mother towards the opposite direction and would cringe in advance for the nail that might cut too deep (which it never did). As soon as I started cutting my own, I started giving an arc a little too deep unintentionally. That resulted in the shortening of my nails’ length, which was a bummer since I liked long length nails (long as in the core part of the nail, not the one that increases and one has to cut regularly). I guess this previous line was a little presumptuous, I’m sorry for that.
I can’t stand a broken nail, it makes me want to run on the road, as far from it as possible, as though it had had a ghost living in it, and now that the nail is broken, has been unleashed. One of the reasons I wince at the sight of it is because I’ve never had a broken nail. So I guess, because I’ve my imagination to aid the ghost rumor more in the stretches of how much the pain would be, I shudder. I’ve seen my basketball teammates’ broken nails, mother’s, brother’s and I go Yuk! Eeew! silently in the mind, as I slowly manage to slip out of the scene.
Have you ever had a broken nail?
It is a strange feeling. It’s a step yet it has so many infinitesimal sub-steps under it, so many if conditions applied to each one. I was just wondering what it’d be like to find places and roam around them. Especially if the places are in other countries. Meet people, spend nights in their rooms, and under open night skies, even if it’s raining sometimes. Spend nights talking to them, about their lives, their problems, their love, their everything and just keep listening until they ask me to tell something. Perhaps even make love with strangers who would not be strangers after I’d have talked to them in the nights, cooked with them, shared with them small wreckages while cooking them some Indian food in their kitchens, hitchhike on strangers’ land and roads.
I see a fellow blogger always having traveled so much since her teens it makes me feel jealous on nights like these. The biggest problem is exchange rates. I mean 1$ = 65 Rupees! My friends who’ve gone to US for higher studies share their dilemmas with me, where spending a dollar somewhere else means they’d have to walk for half an hour to get a bus back and the like. Here, I’m in between parents’ separation, being thankfully lifted and driven by God knows what, finances uncertain, job uncertain, what I want to do / can do uncertain. I’m 23 and it’s been over 2 years since someone has wanted to sit with me and talk. I haven’t talked to any friend let alone seen one in person for over 5 months. I don’t even know if I have friends after these. It’s frustrating sometimes, with the only option left to just write it down for no one else to read/see but the wayback machine.
I know people battle with problems more worse, and this is more of a desire and longing than a problem. But there is always more. This isn’t more really, this is like a compensatory longing for time spent by other’s choices or rules, be it a person or Indian society or lack of options or ignorance.
I’d just want to get away for a while, with a stranger, no matter if it sounds something that only happens in the movies, it’s a possibility. People have had experiences. I just keep asking to nobody in particular why not me. Why can I not tell my parents or anybody for that matter where I’m doing with whom, what I’ll do there. Why can’t I set out a foot towards the mountains and explore unchartered territories, perhaps just stare at the pink cheeks of beautiful upper Himalayan women. Why can’t I explore places? Why am I so afraid of things? Why am I writing this?
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.