This land is seething with vapours of anxiety. The world awaits me while home tosses and turns in bed. My steps change direction, finally finding my own. The pain seems to me a thing of the past, though I am now wise enough to understand it isn't a thing to be evaded in the end.
This river and this soil; these mad, wonderful people; this calm, green breeze; the loud, serene music and the whole, endless food.
The wide congested roads; the useful, unkempt roadsides; my mistakes and successes; the friends and mistresses and all the thugs and the heroes. Delhi, how do you do what you do? How are you all of this at once?
Innocence and its loss, the firsts and the lasts, the conception and consummation and the sane and the wildly curious. The medicines and the sages, the houses and the forests, the lanes and the highways. Aah, Delhi! You painful paradox.
So, I decide I belong perfectly to you.
You might even always mean home.
