… each factory and town look the same to me …
Finally. I am homeward bound. After all these years, I am going home. Of course, I have been seeing my parents, brother, and cousins frequently. Still, I have not seen home for a long time. It is as if I almost forgot what home is like.
The additional emotional baggage that goes with a trip long awaited bothers me. I wish I could behave that I go to India every other week. I am not sure why, but I feel that I am going to a strange land. It is the same sadness I feel when I visit my alma mater. It is as though I became irrelevant. It is like somebody saying, "The world can get along fine without you, Thank you". At least there is some comfort in such a rebuke. Imagine how it would feel if the burden of guilt of leaving were to fall on one’s shoulders.
May be I should be emotionally reminiscing, of the hills, farms, people, and places. But I am not. When I think of the place I was raised, I feel the impotence at history unfolding. I cannot control the destiny of the people. Not that I want to, but I would like to see flowers bloom where cicadas sing. I don’t have that golden key. I have not drunk from the fountain of knowledge. Yet, I feel I should have, at least, participated in the history. To understand me, try imagining yourself as a guest at your own wedding!
I too suffer from exaggerated, inflated importance of the self, as much as the next person. That is not half the problem. In this instance it seems to be the same melancholy of seeing your ex-girl friend sharing the intimacies with somebody else.
When I was young, I would look though the windows of bus when traveling and imagine every place to be mine. I would say to myself "I will remember this particular bend in the road, from years hence", with all good intentions. I look at a face and think "I cannot forget this face as long as I live". I could not bear to think that the bend in the road would disappear from my memory, or even from that road. I wanted to know every place and every face.
It is down-right silly, of course. I am not into solipsism. I know that other people exist, live, love, die without regard to me. Still, they are my people. I would like to be a part of their lives. I do not know how.
What are my feelings now? It is not the rage of early youth, when I had all the answers and was eager to educate my own world. It is the weariness of eyes that have seen the limitations of a mind. Rambling, and meandering through phrases, trying to find a coherent line of thought, I remember the difficulties of expressing oneself. It is like trying to calculate square root of pi in Raman numerals. Or, "padma patramivaambha saa".
Apr 11, 98.