Evanescence:

As we traversed the Eastern Freeway, numerous grey buildings in various stages of construction could be seen lined across Mumbai’s grey skyline. Intermittent rain and dark clouds played tricks with the mind, because at one point in time it looked like a ghost city – devoid of greenery or life like that in the movie Inception.  A few birds flying indicated it was not.

In the two years that I have stayed here, five tall buildings have come up around my rather short seven-storied building. The sixth one is coming up and it will block my last view of the open skies. It will effectively block the summer morning sun from streaming into my bedroom. And even the moon which I can now see only when it moves above the tall buildings. Two years ago, I often watched the misty orange moon rise above the horizon. The distant view of the hills which made me dream especially on rainy days, is long gone – blocked by another construction.

It seems like years now since I have experienced the euphoria of a nature-perfect day uncompromised by the restrictions of a city life. Now these have faded into just moments, to quickly grasp before they vanished into the chaos of an urban life. Whether it’s this city or anywhere else. 

I cannot find anymore those perfect autumn days, chilly and mellow; when a breeze would shake the drying yellow leaves and let it fall all around you. In those times when nature became bare, I became the happiest. Or a crisp and sparkly winter afternoon when the biting cold wind made you want to stay outside longer than huddle inside under your blanket. The fun was in wearing multiple layers, and shiver in the bright sunshine because it was then that the laughter was the loudest and the companionship the warmest.

I do not find anymore any tree-lined long avenues to walk past dreamily while it continued to drip water after a sudden shower. Nor can I find a space to stand and catch sun-spots as the leaves danced madly to their own secret tunes. I don’t find a distant horizon with small hills and a vast open sky where the shape-shifting clouds would roll in and out endlessly. It was in that horizon, when you saw the approaching dark days of monsoon that the heart grew strangely restless and wild.

I have not painted for seven years now.

For I paint nature.

The Connection:

There was a rustle outside the kitchen door. Then the door pushed open and a lovely brown stray dog peeked his head in.

The kitchen was warm and cozy with a fire burning at the grate. A cat slept next to the fire, so near that I thought it will get singed. I was warned that temperature falls below zero in Pfutsero, but I was hugely disappointed when the late December night turned out to be warmer. It was however cold enough to enjoy the toasty warmth of the kitchen fire.

I looked up from my plate heaped with food and our eyes met. Brownie didn’t bark or sniff, just came and stood next to me wagging his tail. His pupils were opaque. He was blind but he knew exactly where I was sitting. My heart lurched and melted. Every time I called his name, he would look up straight into my eyes. Somebody beat up Brownie badly on the head after which he lost his eyesight. The two girls looking after the lodge took care of him and the cat. I watched Brownie that night as he roamed around the house and the garden. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he could not see and went about his business like a normal dog. More importantly, he still trusted humans.

Just before I went to sleep, I saw him below the stairs looking at me and whining. I called out to him and he came bounding up the stairs, furiously wagging his tail. He understood that I would be leaving the next day. The girls had to force him away from me. They pushed him out into the cold night and shut the door.

I set out the next morning, before the sky had started to clear, leaving behind a small piece of my heart at Pfutsero.

(Happy) New Year:

C: I listen to this for hours when I go mad; it helps me calm down. I get up every day at 2am, listen to the music for two hours and then fall asleep again.

The soft notes of the piano floated out into the forested valley. The sun which had just come out from behind the steep ridge warmed our backs. An all-encompassing silence overpowered the music. Time stretched hypnotically.

Me: Isn’t that a wedding ring on your finger?

C: It’s a long story. I was a father once.

A bird shrieked somewhere.

C: We ran away from home.

Me: Why?

C: Shrugs his shoulder looking away

Me: Were you both from the same clan?

C: No. I think we were so much in love that we couldn’t be apart. We ran away to Kohima. I met her in school, we were in the same class. Both our families eventually accepted the situation and accepted us as well. We were so happy together and had planned out our future. She was pregnant when she fell down and fractured her skull. Three days later she died.

C raised his head and looked at me. The silence of the hills seemed to carry his sorrow across like a physical presence. Tears were threatening to spill from my eyes. I look away.

C: I often wonder why this happened, but I do not get any answers. That’s why I go mad sometimes. The past keeps pulling you back.

Me: Sometimes there are no answers.

C: I want to travel, get far away from Nagaland.

Me: You must go to the Himalayas then.                                             

I looked back at the forested ridge. The sun had already shifted in the sky and fell at an angle over the trees creating orbs of light. It was magical; as if the spirits of the forest had gathered around and also listened. In the distant valley, we could see the ‘hidden’ village of Khonoma, sharp against the beautiful rich sunlight on the first day of a new year.

Let’s Talk:

I want to talk. I want to talk till the moon slips into the sea and the world falls silent except for our murmurs.

I want you to tell me about your imaginative childhood games and I will tell you about the orchard with a tiled hut and the ghost in the neighbourhood pond.

I want you to tell me about your best memories and I will tell you about the boy with sad eyes and a small pup.

I want to know about the times when you almost gave up and I will tell you about a time when I did not exist.

I want to know what you think of when you see the full moon casts its magic on the high mountains and I will tell you why I wanted to run away from the world.

I want you to tell me your daily routine and what you do in the last hours of each day and I will tell you about the birds that flitter around in the mango tree everyday.

I want to know why you like the books that you like and I will tell you the stories swirling in my head.

I want you to tell me about your philosophy of love and life and I will tell you what I read in your eyes.

Lost in Oneness:

“For the first time in my life, I was able to think. I do not mean to think objectively or analytically, but rather to surrender thoughts to my surroundings……It is then that the Eternal speaks, that the mutations of the universe are apparent; the very atmosphere is filled with life and songs; the hills are resolved from mere masses of snow, ice and rocks into something living…..”

Frank Smythe and five other mountaineers coming down from the ascent of Kamet, had stumbled upon Nandan Kanan or Valley of Flowers in 1931. Later Frank Symthe had returned alone to stay in the valley for six to seven months and document the flowering species, a long enough time for him to be completely overwhelmed by nature and its beauty.

I envy the likes of him, of explorers, of yogis, of travelers of yore, who have seen and experienced nature like none of us will ever know now.  For now we can catch just mere glimpses of a deep sacredness or snatch moments of being completely alone – with yourself, with nature, with the divinity. That deep sacredness in marred and in a few decades will be forever gone. You may say that my soul has perhaps known this very sacredness through the millennia that I have lived, so why the envy.  

Yes, perhaps it was me, a warrior, standing on top of a craggy cliff with the angry waves dashing below, looking longingly at the horizon wondering where the horizon will lead him.

Perhaps it was me, a young prince with a restless soul riding hard on his favourite horse, eastwards to the mountains, to quench an unknown thirst.

Perhaps it was me, a yogi, walking alone in a field of grass feeling the warmth of a golden sun; a feeling of happiness he had never known before.

So perhaps it is this sacredness, this connect with the eternal that has been the thread connecting all my lives, what my soul seeks, and what makes it worthwhile to even come back to again and again.

And that’s why it hurts the most when I see the elements desecrated.  I will perhaps come back, more out of necessity than desire.  But by then, the eternal will stop speaking; life will be filled with the here and now stretching on meaninglessly.  And in those every moments, there will always be that search for eternity.  The sacredness of life will be forgotten and the Soul will ultimately die.

Oneness – or Nirvana – either ways it will be.

Horizon:

I love flying in the evenings.

You are higher up than the horizon down below. The sun that drops down this horizon throws up colours that can only originate and multiply in the unknown space.  Un-earthly.  Colours, that no human or their brilliant machines can ever be successful in replicating.

I love flying in the evenings.

There is a serenity in the darkening horizon that is like meditation; and thoughts of the desperate chaos on Earth can make you want to stay there forever.     

I love flying at nights.

The twinkling of the city lights down below can reveal their own quirky characters. Bangalore – binary, Kolkata – old fashioned, Delhi – distant, Bangkok – a pendant. The best however is Mumbai – scattered sparkling jewels for people to pick up and keep.

I love flying at nights.

It takes you a little closer to the Moon and the stars. In the dark emptiness around you, it takes you a little closer to the significance of who you are. 

An apology to my Earth:

“Nothing lives long

Only the Earth and the Mountains”

So goes the death song sung by White Antelope, the war chief of the Cheyennes tribe when he was killed by the white people.

Though I still cry at the fate of the Native Indian tribes, I am beginning to believe that it’s good that they are not here to see what has happened to their beloved earth and the mountains. To my beloved earth, forests and the mountains. Everywhere I go, I see signs of destruction, of greed, of a need that can never be fulfilled, of a dream that is only a mirage. But how do I tell people that? How do I tell people that all that they are seeking is right there, within the very earth, the forests and the mountains they are looting?

I dread to think what I will see in the next ten years; perhaps the Native Indians were wrong. Perhaps nothing will live long, not even the earth and the mountains. And when that happens, where will I be? Where will I live and where will I die?

“The old men say, the Earth only endures. You spoke truly, you are right.”

And along with the Earth, I also endure.

Hiraeth (n.):

Homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. (Welsh)

Apart from the dirt and garbage all around, everything about the city was deeply altered by time. Five years old flyovers which appeared aged and used, shopping arcades where nothing existed, open spaces taken over by cramped up shops and houses and apartments instead of friendly houses and gardens. My sense of distances, still threaded with the experience back then of the languorous pace of cycle rickshaws got a jolt when we reached an hour’s distance in just 20 minutes.

When the flight landed, my feeling of anticipation of seeing the city after 23 years got muddled up with my sense of identity. Was I here as an outsider who had once called the city home or despite the years, I still belonged to this place? Streets and colonies went past in a blur as I struggled to find and recognize the familiar geography of childhood. Senses were overloaded with the transformation to even recollect those innocent fun-filled days. Till I reached my school.

As I walked down the path leading to the main gate and overlooking Mother Mary’s statue, my pace slowed down. The school was exactly how it was so many years ago and like waves the memories came crashing. Memories and nostalgia of a carefree world which I had put inside a box and kept sealed. I asked the gatekeeper if I could go in as the school was shut that day. Something in my face must have softened him as he allowed me in. As I walked down all the familiar areas, somehow I felt taller and bigger and the school smaller. Life has played out its many chapters since then and this is where it all started, this is where my character began to take shape. When a knot began forming in my throat and my heart got heavier, I decided to turn back.

The house where I had spent the best decade of my childhood and the one which still comes in my dreams sometime, has been razed to the ground. The garden which I had so loved was a concrete area waiting to metamorphose into another cold apartment building. The orchard and the pond where we had spent thousands of happy afternoons, was now only a part of my memory. There was nothing left in this mohalla which I could remember or call as home.

Disappointment. Sadness. And a realization that there is no coming back, and the fact that this home was also temporary.

A Day I Will Never Forget:

As I looked at the mountains from my room in Leh early in the morning, I knew for sure that I would be leaving the high mountains that day. It had been snowing in the upper reaches of these mountains since the past few days. But that day, the clouds had turned darker and come down lower than usual. Up until then I was uncertain as to when I would leave, trying my best to extend my stay as much as possible. Despite the bad weather, I understood that the mountains were permitting me to go.

  

When the realization set in, each second seemed to pass extremely slowly yet very fast at the same time. My mind was trying to accept the fact that I was leaving while my heart tried to memorise all the moments. As the minutes passed and my turmoil grew, it seemed that the mountains understood what I felt and mirrored it back. The car ride to the taxi stand to book tickets, feeling happy to find only Ladakhi drivers there, glimpses of heavy snow even on the lower ranges as the clouds parted, the growing cold, the hushed lunch with colleagues, the walk back to the guest house as the wind picked up speed, autumn leaves raining down all around me, the clouds growing thicker by the minute, the meticulous yet hurried packing, TC rushing back from a wedding lunch to say goodbye and calling me to open the gates, the sudden silence all around as the first tiny swirls of snow fell on my face and hair when I rushed outside without a jacket to open the gates, the goodbyes at the guest house which did not sound like goodbyes, rushing back to the office for a short farewell which did not feel like a farewell as people discussed the sanity of leaving by road on that day, the clouds almost reaching the ground and snow falling hard as my time to leave approached, the tight hugs and goodbyes to my colleagues said with a smile on my face and a lump in my throat.

As my luggage was loaded into the tempo traveler and I settled down in my seat, the sky cleared as if by magic. The last orange rays of the setting sun lit up the stray clouds that remained in the dark blue sky, as if the snow had fallen in my dreams. We stopped thrice in the first few hours of the journey, once due to an engine problem and twice due to tyre punctures, after which it was a bitterly cold but a smooth ride all the way. Once in the first dawn light, I opened my eyes and saw immense snow peaks all around me faintly glowing in the pre-morning light.

I felt happy as I closed my eyes and fell asleep once more. The mountains had spoken. I knew then that I will be back again soon.  

  

The Calling:

When the call comes, life in the city begins to feel like one huge lie. You see the same people on the roads, friends talking excitedly, families having lunch in expensive restaurants or going to movies, the guy selling idlis at the street corner, the auto-wallahs not ready to take you where you want to go, the locals still running 10 minutes behind schedule. All the sights which once made you feel safe and secure, now seems fake. I can almost use the word ‘maya’ for it. But then, isn’t that ultimately the truth?

The slow destruction of a life which you once thought you will have, the notion of a life which is just out of grasp, the real reasons that push you to do things that are not important, the fears that push you to not do things that are important....it’s the call which suddenly brings everything up to the fore and tells you on your face who you are. It also tells you on your face that you, who think of yourself as straightforward, are at some point living a hypocrite’s life.

For me the mountains are the mirror which shows me my true self, shred of all the false layers that I knowingly or unknowingly have put on in the cities striping me to the bare bones.  For me, they are the shoulders where I can lay my mind filled with chaos to rest. For me, they are the ones which keep me tied to the existence of my life.

And when the call comes, everything ceases to matter. The only thing that matters is that you Have to go.

The Selfie:

Whose image are you staring at? Is that you or is that somebody who you want others to believe you are? You live your whole life chasing an image, enhancing it, doing things which the person in the image would do if he/she were to actually exist. Your relationships are based on what that person would want, you keep ‘friends’ who will make you look good. No, you are not capable of falling in love because love is spontaneous, from the heart. It cannot be created like that image. Even if it stares at your face, you choose to look away. By the end you forget who you really were born to be. Because I am sure none of us are born to be an image of an ‘other’.  

Why is it so important to define the ‘I’? What a torture for the soul to live within a frame instead of an exploration with colours, patterns, textures and style.  What a torture for the soul to be limited by one’s own perceptions instead of a journey that lets you discover so many interesting nuances of the ‘I’.  What a torture for the soul to be surrounded by well defined similar images as a support system instead of letting your heart find the resonance of its music in others.

Imagine in the end the kaleidoscope that could be your own unique life. Or a brilliant work of art with its particular dashes of shades and colours all of your own.

And in that true life, there would also be me, painting along with you on the way.

The Race:

It is beautiful still

It was a race

Between the setting sun and me

I caught up just as it turned bright orange

With red flecks and saw it slip behind a hill

I glimpsed upon its reflection

On the misty waters of a quiet lake below

I turned with a sign

To the far horizon on the other side

Where a flimsy orange moon

Was getting bolder by the minute

I lay there on top of a hill

Caught between a setting sun and a rising moon

The wind rushing past my ears

And a tranquil unmoving silence all around

It was painful

This unhurried beauty

The mind was in a chaos

Afraid of the future

Till what time, till what time

I asked the darkening sky

The stars sparkled

The moon beamed a golden surreal light

I fell silent

Yes, it is beautiful still

How to ride a bicycle and be carefree:

Just go to Vietnam! It’s a bicycle country. Everybody rides bicycle here – men, women, children, dogs, cats, in cities, in rural areas, everywhere. So cyclists have the right of way and more importantly other heavy vehicles on the roads keep a lookout for them.

What struck me when we landed in Hanoi was that everything looked similar, like Delhi was before Commonwealth. Muddy little lanes without pavements, haphazard way of erecting buildings, plastic lining the highway; the only change was that people looked different and traffic moved on the right hand side.

Ten days, erratic weather and a few local train travels later, the differences between our country and theirs started to emerge – strongly. In all reality it’s just a 38 years old country, for that’s when the war had ended. Just like most post war countries, population boomed from a mere 10 millions to around 90 millions today resulting in a lot of spread or growth in construction everywhere. People are not that sensitive to environment yet and laws are still not as strong as it’s our country. Like most Asian countries, Vietnam society also yearns for a son who will pray for them when they die. In smaller towns, two coffees together will result in discussions of marriage. The concept of men helping in housework is still not acceptable. Yet, in these 38 years, Vietnam has moved so much ahead of us - in development, infrastructure, lifestyle and most importantly attitude.

The plastic lining the highway in Hanoi was an aberration. Even though rustic, the rest of the country is spotlessly clean. Like most South East Asian countries, people are well dressed, friendly and naively lacking the ability to differentiate which usually ends in subtle forms of racism elsewhere. There is dignity in labour; people are polite and very punctual. You still have to cross the roads just as blindly as we do here but motorists will gracefully let you go first.

Sitting besides the Hoan Kiem Lake near the old quarters of Hanoi in the warm mellow winter sun, I felt I could spend an entire lifetime just watching people and life go by. Young mothers strolling with their adorable babies, the students trying to chat up tourists in order to improve their English, the many pre-wedding photo shoots with brides and grooms posing in different places – there was a languid quality to life here.   

The afternoon sun filtering in through the tree got caught in the grey hair of an old couple sitting on a bench and chatting with each other. That warm picture made me feel like growing old just like them and in a place just like this.          

But till that time, I would happily ride a bicycle along the sea coast totally free and perhaps even collect wildflowers on the way! 

Innocence:

Recently I went for a workshop in Himachal; to a village verging on turning into a small town but not quite there yet.  The snow peaks were covered by clouds testing me once more. Pretty valleys surrounded us but wherever I looked, I saw signs of human habitation spreading like an octupus’ tentacles – modern buildings, mobile towers, cars, garbage etc.

My workshop was full of energetic and super enthusiastic youngsters from cities all across the country. It was interesting to observe these youngsters and their behaviour pattern; those from Delhi were hesitant at first in making friends, ones from Chennai were a naturally bubbly lot who though friendly tended to form a group, the students from Bangalore were balanced while the only other girl from Mumbai mingled with everybody like she knew all of them from before. 

  

While the post-sessions time rang out with songs and laughter around a bon-fire, I would sit aside and think back to a time when I was a student like them and yet so different from them. While I used to be totally confused, scared and restless, these youngsters were focussed, confident, knew what they wanted and were well travelled to boot.  

    

I befriended a 24 year old Himachali girl who had just completed her Masters from JNU. She told me how most in her circle of friends were already disillusioned with life. When I probed, she said it was possibly due to so many choices in life or that JNU generally bred disillusionment.   

It was during a short interactive session with 12^th Std. students from the local government school that it struck me. It was innocence or rather the lack of it. What the local students had, their city bred counterparts lacked a great deal.     

One day, our coordinator recounted how he had taken his 6 year old daughter to a river which was almost pristine. When he told her the name of the river, she asked,“ How can it be a river, this one doesn’t stink?”  

With no real connect with nature now left, I fear that all innocence will now be gone with this little girl’s generation.   

Dolce far Niente!

I had forgotten just how sweet it can be.

I had forgotten just how good it feels when you can remain snuggled under the cover, in the darkness listening to the heavy fall of rain outside. I let an hour pass as I turned from side to side drifting in and out of sleep. I decided to finally get up after the domestic help had left and the house had fallen silent. I switched off all the fans and opened the windows wide. Rain sprinkled in along with gusts of wind. I could hear the mad rustling of the Peepal tree outside as I sat down with a cup of tea and the daily newspapers. Four wet sparrows came and sat on the window grill chirping hesitantly. I was so happy to see them. I got up and sprinkled some rice for them, so that they would come again and again to visit me.

After a while I threw the papers away. Today was not a day to read about the bad or even the good stuff happening everywhere. It was just the kind of day for not doing anything. So I just lazed on the bed gazing outside at the darkening sky and the moss covered building. Rain lashed and then slowed down to a drizzle. Thoughts came and went; emotions surfaced and then died out.

It was a day for not doing anything. No reading, no listening to music, no house work, no office work. Just be. In the moment. Guilt free.

The sweetness of not doing anything. I think I will repeat this another day very soon. 

Putting a Finger:

My month and a half escape to pure freedom is nearing a decade and so is my journey with writing. Looking back, it seems like a defining decade and journey - a decade which constantly kept me on my toes, forever shifting, forever questioning. Chapters opened and chapters closed in quick succession egging me on to the path where I should be. I rose to great heights and fell from greater heights teetering on the brink of a space where there is either chaos or magic. Now I can see that by luck or divine interventions, I always fell on the side of magic.

2003 was a tumultuous year for me. The third annual trek to the Himalayas only added to the gnawing restlessness which ate up my soul. My mind was filled with questions and an ever increasing need to escape so much so that I could not think of anything else. And as the saying went, the universe conspired to give me exactly what I needed. At that time I didn’t know what the consequences of such a want would be and where it would lead me. It’s only a decade later that I can afford to breathe and look back with ease.

It’s the middle of 2013 and the year is no where similar to the one a decade back. There are no more questions eating out my soul, only the warmth of the present moment. There are times when a strange and different kind of restlessness rears its head.....a restlessness which is not satisfied by the many short and long trips I take on work and holidays leaving me claustrophobic and gasping. Maybe it’s a shadow or reminder of something which I have not felt in a long time. Maybe it’s a precursor to something much bigger.

Whatever it may turn out to be, I now know that I am looking forward to another decade of an unfathomable journey and another decade of writing about it.

Randomness:

It’s the night, always the night that makes you think.

Sitting by the window and watching the distant twinkling lights of the airport, the silent buzz of traffic on the tarmac that never ceases, the occasional sound of a flight taxing down the runway in the dead of the night,  tends to make me feel terribly and strangely lonely yet fuzzily warm all at the same time.

I sit by the window and think of all the stories that take place every day and every hour within its vast yet limited confines. I think of stories of people leaving for destinations far and near, leaving behind many loved ones perhaps, going to places big or small but different from ours, sometimes never to return, of coming back to empty apartments. I think of stories of people who would perhaps be coming home from distant lands to loved ones, the excitement of meeting families and friends, the excitement of discovering a new place, of travelling together.  

I sit by the window and think of my story...of how similar or different it would be from those stories out there.  

And in the mornings, the aloof yet inviting lights fade and the building merges with others against the grey sky. The stories of people also fade as daily life takes over.  

Sometimes I Wonder:

Is this how I wanted the world around me to be? I remember times in those years gone by when I would sit by the window or verandah and dream about a world. Not this. Now that world in my head seems so distant and hazy that I cannot remember a thing in it. But it was definitely not this. This world lacks the innocence of my world, the enchantment of finding a never discovered place, the happiness of aimlessly ambling around, the truth of an everlasting relationship.   

Sometimes I Wonder

Just how resilient am I? Till this omnipotent claustrophobia not of my making finally engulfs me. This noise, people…too many people, this unbearable mass of clutter all around and the ever present evidence of humanity in even the remotest corners. Perhaps there will come a time when somebody will break my reverie on a cold mountain top one day and say ‘Kindly adjust’.

Sometimes I Wonder

How much time till I finally give up? On people and relationships of any kind. Far too many people have far too many hesitations and restrictions of their own making. You can keep extending your hand - for friendship, love, to help, to just give without return – but you will not find another hand extended in return. Too many people are far too busy creating a chimera of extraordinary lives that they will feel empty without.

Sometimes I Wonder

How fast can I change with the changing time? Or will I forever be stuck in the past? My dreams are still there but they were built in the past. That world and this world do not match anymore. There is nothing new in this world. Perhaps like the frequency of changing mobile phones and laptops, I will also have to keep changing my dreams to find the missing newness.     

Sometimes I wonder….how much more….just how much more…..

Bangalored!

I finally found a city which lets me dream.

It’s not important that I can be myself here. What I treasure most is that I can simply lose myself there...no need to be even me. This is the only city where I can walk without a care in the world, lost in my own thoughts, my own tune. This is the only city where I can walk and walk and just keep walking. This is the only city where I can sit alone in its many parks with the sun filtering through its beautiful trees and read uninterrupted for hours. The only interruption is when I want to listen to the wind rustling the leaves of the trees or when I want to see how close the squirrels could come to you.  

For many years, I have travelled to Bangalore for just a couple of days when it would be work and hurried meetings with friends.  This time I stayed for a much longer time, enough to understand the pulse of the city and its people. What I saw I loved immensely - its many quaint lanes and by-lanes covered with massive rain trees, beautiful buildings and delightful cafes. A good mix of both Delhi and Mumbai, its unhurried, laid back pace lets you enjoy life at your own pace. I felt at peace, content yet energetic. And there were many a-times while sitting out late at night with the chilly breeze on my face and gazing at the sky, I felt a pure happiness which I have not felt in years.

Perhaps it was me. Perhaps it was the simple realisation that all those dreams that I have had was right there, coming to me at its own time and pace.

Or perhaps it was just the city weaving its spell around me.  

Change is the Only Constant:

I like change. It takes me to whole new places, physically, mentally and emotionally. It lets me experience things I have never experienced before. It forces me to meet people I would have never met otherwise. It makes me to do things I would never dream of doing.

I am scared of change. I am scared of leaping into the unknown knowing that I might not land on my feet. I am scared of hurting and bruising myself over and over again. One part of me would love to spend the rest of my life in cosy familiarity, doing the same thing again and again with my circle of known people.

One part of me would die if I didn’t grow. Perhaps this part of me is stronger. Every time I start feeling the fuzzy warmth of familiarity around me and think of wallowing in it, change forces its way in to say it missed me.

It’s the beginning of another year and I begin it with yet another change. Where the change will lead me, how I will cope....I have no idea.

All I know now that it’s there and I have to take its hand.