I had never had the comfort of being fully understood, until Lola, that is.
As a child born to parents who were, and still are, serving in the armed forces, I have never lived in a single place for more than a couple of years – never studied in the same school, never had a group of friends for any more than the duration of my parents’ posting to a particular station.
I could write about the stories that Mumbai is tired of hearing, tales told to death, nooks and corners visited and revisited, shore touched, sounds heard.
Tables are joined for families, made into a family that is wonderfully big and ever-expanding.
I was present in one, bamboozled by the vibe of this wonderful place
The first thing I thought of, after my first train of post-sleep-frustration thoughts this morning, was Himachal Pradesh. It is the way everything that plagues you leaps along the rail-track of your mind, bogey after bogey filled with classes stuffed like an infinity of scrap paper in a tiny dustbin, appointments that make you lose your breath, exams, presentations, assignments – only to be followed by a sense of “I wish it were this way instead” waving its flag at the end of the last carriage
This is from the time I found religion in the mountains.
Darjeeling is so much more than a few momo shops and pretty mountain tops and Tiger hill and tea estates. Darjeeling breathes, stumbles, falls, and picks itself up. Darjeeling protects. Darjeeling loves. Darjeeling gives.