I suffered for the longest time, from the most insufferable sort of wanderlust. I lusted to wander. But wander I could not. I was too young. I couldn’t be allowed to roam alone. No one had the time to travel aimlessly with me. I had no money. No one had any to spare for me to spend either.
So I spent years and years wondering when I would experience the world. I read about places, hoarded postcards and watched movies. Anything to get a feel of different places, people, cultures… I tried to familiarise myself with different languages, on the off-chance that some day, it might come handy.
Slowly, it began to seem less likely that I would ever go anywhere fun or do anything fun or meet anyone fun and maybe just have fun. When I decided to work, I thought it was the end of life as I knew it. To some extent of course, that was true.
Within a month I realised that I couldn’t stay cooped up in office. A deep restlessness surged within. It dawned on me that whether or not I was ever able to travel the way I wanted to, there was just no way I could stay put for any appreciable length of time in one place. So after a short period of self-inflicted torture, I packed up, became a freelancer and sat under a tree to work.
Then one day, when I had just about tucked up my dreams of traveling and put them permanently to bed, they were woken up with a sudden jerk. Dusted off, brushed down and freshly laundered for good measure, we were in business again, it seemed. All the hurdles had melted away and all I had to do was leave. So I hopped about in delight and onto a plane.
Of course, dreams and reality are never exact mirrors for each other. I found that out soon enough.
…To Be Continued…
