Disclaimer note: This is not a story.
In 2014, I turned 23 years old. Fresh out of college, I had selflessly devoted my five precious years to studying something absolutely immersive and mind blowing, literature. To my full and proactive understanding, the last day of my last lecture confirmed one thing that I’m a sucker for great stories and a thought-provoking narrative.
Born and brought up in the busy lanes of Delhi. India’s capital city that works better on commercialization than culture. It is a city rundown by politically-charged rants and cultural differences but still remains redeemable. Delhi is more than just a city boiling with money and scorching heat, it is home to the urban poor of India.
After spending a couple of months interning for a few travel companies as a writer, I desired inspiration. A few days later, I made a promise to myself to never celebrate my birthday in my own city. This way it became easier to get out and explore.
In 2016, I went full Jack Kerouac.
One week. Three destinations. One job to look forward to.
You see burnout makes you mediocre but a creative life turns you into a crazy traveller thirsty for things unknown, which might tune down the mediocrity a little. What I vowed for was a flawless not-so-mediocre vamoose from the burnout. I packed my bags and headed down south to a quintessential coastal paradise of India, Goa.
Quite frankly, I didn’t like it much.