You must have started your travel way back in your life, from school to your house and to the forest in between where you hung out with your closest acquaintance. The strangeness of memory and its routes are nothing of the past. It is of the present that can lead you through the hills. For me there is nothing as strange and chill as travelling. For me there is nothing more painful and depressing than staying. It has been several months since I stopped writing or reading anything neither academics nor literature, but just travelling around with few money in my hands and with little or no planning.
This is about me, trying desperately to forgo my personal tragedies and, to get out of a stagnant academic life. Nevertheless it’s a sad world of ugly humans who build cities and care for nothing. And in that same world I believe there are superhumans and aliens, the beautifullest creatures I have ever met, sipping an early-morning chai in the valley of Kwar, swimming naked in the hotwater spring of Vasisht, with a beedi in her mouth cycling in saree through the streets of Bolpur or just travelling and living with a working body and a beautiful mind throughout the country. When I started my travel at some point in my life I didn’t get any answers, I just lost all the questions once and for all.