Diary of a Lost Wanderer

Some days are quieter than others. . . . Sitting here today, I found myself reflecting on the journey so far. KC turns 7 this year. My full-time freelancing journey steps into its 12th year. If I count the part-time gigs before that, it makes 16. And if I trace it back to where it all began, I’ve been working for 24 years now. Writing has been a constant all through these years. The forms, the length, and the shapes have changed. 

  After Mumbai, I moved to Singapore for a brief period.  One of the most often-heard things about Singapore was how it was all plastic and lacked any authenticity of its own. This was often followed by the stark difference between the rich and the poor who co-existed in the island city.  I was also told that this difference would seep into conversations, leading to a lot of mixed behaviour the moment they know which part of Singapore you are from. 

Dear Diary, I fell in love with Mumbai when I first visited it in 1995. Bombay, as it was then known, fascinated me since then.  If you ask me what made me fall in love with this city, I perhaps cannot explain. It wasn't that I was seeing the sea for the first time. It wasn't even the biggest city I had been to till then. Still, there was something so magical about this place. The trip was a short one lasting less than a week but this city now had my heart. Years later, I arrived here all alone on my first solo trip in 2005 and fell in love all over again. I got my first job and was required to come to Mumbai frequently. The local trains, the chaos on the roads, the crowds, the humdrum, the salty smell in the air, the stale air- everything about this city was intoxicating for me. 

Image Source: Unpexels (Cottonbro) “Do you know why is it called making love?” He whispered, pulling the comforter closer.  I don’t remember for how long we had been in that room, on that bed. Lying aimlessly, just feeling each other in silence. I managed to just whimper to denote my curiosity.   “Because that is the moment we create love. We are the closest we could ever be to love, in its purest form. It is sheer magic as we are naked, in every form. Mentally, physically and emotionally before that one person, we love. We know they can hurt us, as much as they want to, in the way they want to. But love gives us that power to trust them, that they won’t.”   “And here I was thinking it is a need. Something you want at that moment and you get it!” 

Image Source: Unsplash (@RobertMetz) Sandstorm- Wounds of the childhood Reshaping my future

Image Source: Unsplash.com I remember the first time I mourned the loss of love was when I was eleven.  For me, dance was love at that time. I had discovered a strange joy as I glided in and out of those movements. Every time I swirled; I could feel my heart soar. Any beat that strained to reach my ears, tempted me to move my body to its tune. I just knew I was born to dance and that is the only thing I wanted to do, all my life.  I had my reasons to believe so and a very simple one at that. It made me happy. That was a reason enough. However, my father thought otherwise. Girls from good families, do not dance. That line was enough to break all those rosy dreams of dancing on a stage. The day my brother was sent to the same dance class which was not good for me, was the day I experienced heartbreak for the first time.  That is the day I mourned the loss of my first love- Dance. 

 ** Trigger Warning: Death, Loss of a loved one, Suicide** Image Source:  Free Plant Image on Unsplash Dakko is no more.  Even as I type this sentence there is a sense of overwhelming disbelief within me. A strange numbness takes over my senses as my heart refuses to believe this ultimate truth staring at my face right now.  For me, she was love. Since the time I was an infant, I had known her as love. She was there when I needed her, pampering me, loving me, mollycoddling me, and bearing with all my tantrums throughout my life. I cannot imagine my three and a half decades of existence without her being there during some of my toughest times.