All those who read the last post and thought "What the hell?", please count me in. I would have removed that post but I am keeping it as reminder of how bad and incoherent can writing get when moods dwindle. And the lovely poem at the end that bore the burnt, I wish I could give it better context.
However, I am back, to Bangalore, on the track. The journey home was journey home. I don't want to tag it with adjectives like good, excellent, wonderful or the more desi, fandoo. In fact, if I could, I would not have anybody ask me this question, "How was the trip home?". Everytime I am asked that question, I feel like a loser. One who cannot think of one word in which to pour in all his heart and memories and show the other person how exactly was it and I just dish out a "good" or a little more trendy "mast". Soemhow, it occurs to nobody how ironic our questions and answers have become. "trip to home" ?? "mast"?? Some more enlightened souls ask about "trip to native place" instead. Politically correct, emotionally bankdrupt. I have at times used "trip to my parents" when talking to foreigners और हर बार जैसे मुंह कसकसा गया है। But I have learned to stop thinking about all this. I have learned to live with my inability to express myself. Language after all is no longer a vehicle of expression but a vehicle of prosperity and wealth.
And as always, money stinks !