But I was also so dull, so bored, and utterly lost.
I still remember the day I stepped out of the hot, dusty, Mumbai airport, immediately being greeted by a thousand, no, two thousand peering eyes. I could finally understand why India was the second most populous nation in the world. The feeling was surreal, having left the comfort of everything to be here, alone. I felt like I was committing suicide.
Two indian ladies and a taxi driver approached me to pick me up. I was mentally prepared should my life have ended there and then, in the event that I was indeed being kidnapped by the aforementioned subjects. Thankfully, kidnapping wasn't part of their forte.
I gazed attentively at the shantytowns as we drove further and further into the city. Everything was broken yet erect, like a physical representation of the tenacity and determination of their souls. I was so moved and weak in contrast. And I believed that this was truly where I belonged- for that period, that is. Away from the pretentious Sunday brunches with flowing champagne and overstuffed stomachs, superfluous shopping of clothes & shoes with the firm belief that it will eventually satisfy, clockwork lives, clockwork dates, clockwork communion, and my blind future sailing to No Man's Land. I was petrified that my life would wilt away, void of any single productive purpose. And suddenly, here I was in India- my weak attempt at finding one. I had a 180 days, a hundred and eighty chances.
I passed out in the car for the rest of the journey, was dehydrated and had a bloody nose. This is all I remember of the first day.
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.
.
I washed my clothes (out of a pail) for the first time in my life, sat in the heat and dark during power cuts, showered daily out of the same pail, ate rice & dal everyday, slept on a cardboard bed, with all my belongings fitting a backpack. It was difficult and initially torturous, but I loved it and it made me strong.
I met all sorts of interesting people and often wondered what brought them to this common ground. Their stories and inspiration were my daily mantra- I had so much to learn from everyone and everything. I was alive and living.
I saw poverty and tried to comprehend the complexity of reality. The perplexity of slums, transgenders, street children, prostitution, child gangs, children taking drugs, were all too much for my pea brain to handle. They looked so small and innocent to me. I could never imagine how they slept at railways stations at night, and risked getting chased away by policemen. What did they eat when they were hungry? I couldn't imagine the extent that they were abused at home which made them runaway. Why did their parents abandon them? Why can't they be loved? Everyone deserves to be loved, and cared for, or so says that constitution rights of children.
I was so useless, all I could do was cry.
.
.
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Somewhere along my way, I also lost a friend who died before my naked eyes, in my hands. I was the last to see him breathing, and I didn't do enough. Thinking about him still makes me cry till this very day.
And then I decided to ditch this black hole that was sucking all the happiness out of my body.
Three years on, I still can't say that I've committed to any aspiration. (A less daunting word for, purpose.) But I'm not so lost anymore. More than anything, I've learned to dismantle the fallacies of ideologies and see the truth as it is. I've learned that nothing is ever perfect, absolute and pure. All I can do is to keep searching, like it's the first time.
And this pain everyday, simply reminds us that we're alive. It reminds us to live earnestly, because nobody cheats death.
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