There I was, out of Delhi again, lifting the colossal writing block from my mind. The lights passed me by at an alarming pace and I held on to my dear little electronic diary, typing out gibberish yet again. It took 24 hours and a series of pathetic jokes to mend the broken glass, the glass that could be patched up and hand blown into consistency once again. The train was taking me back to the rajdhani, the city I had accepted as home, the way a nomad looks lovingly at his current settlement, aware that the bliss is short lived. The fog and the dark faded the beautiful greens outside and I got goosebumps, I remembered the long winding bus journeys to grandma’s farms. The paddy soaked till knee, the peacocks performing their monsoon mating dance, the rains splashing the arid land, the farmers in frenzy, toiling away, the beautiful red verandah of her house and the place I took my first steps in, spoke my first words in. The steps and words witnessed only by the two people who aren’t alive to tale my childhood tales anymore. The memories only cherished by those who are better off in another world. The stories of ghosts told in the light of an ancient lantern, the stories of how I could stand on my grandfather’s hand in a perfect balance. I miss them, both, terribly. I have also been wishing for something for myself for a while. The universe is supposed to conspire to bring to you what your heart truly desires, so where is the thing I want the most? That Coelho is a liar for sure.