Homes and Worlds

I head out for the Promised Land like any postcolonial theory-practise-confusion type person. In a few months. I had started this blog with a solemn promise to myself that I would not bring in the personal into it, it would be fundamentally musings about being a Misfit and Awestruck in North India and the Delhi activist type world.

But I feel compelled now to talk about the hairpin curve in my life. Somewhat in personal-meets-political-meets-blog way. As the ever receding mirage of the idyllic home floats further and further away. And I dangle my legs from a pretty caravan. Onto some new song-n-dance.

Kicking one more sandcastle. Of loves and hates and happinesses. Trying to cling onto my collected works of laughter and forgotten. And coffee table images of waistdeep waterloggings on Rawdon Street, eucalyptus lovemakings of suburban Bangalore, midnight kabab sojourns, midnight-ladder-sojourns on marijuana, midnight drunk poetries of broken hearts, bum-wrigglings on parapet-less terraces, neoliberal flyovers, glassy shopping malls, creepers of dilapidated North Calcutta, red-and-white goddesses, ilish and shorshe, beginnings of monsoons, wet cigarettes and unfinished orgasms.

I have had many homes. I have built several sandcastles. And kicked them all.

Yet another caravan beckons. Seductively. As I stand up to kick my castle.

Comments

Arawn said…
Did you really think that you could ever stay in one place? Haven't felt that, yet. New songs and dances are often all that one needs.

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