The more I make journeys far and wide, the more I travel inside. Travelling is never a pastime. It is an occupation. I have to keep moving on. To new places. Meeting new people, walking the roads, getting involved in interesting conversations day by day, losing yourself in the cultural climate of the place and finding your way back at night, at times while talking with your companion or simply by walking ahead your shadow. When I travel, I am already seeking what's new, what's different. When I make journeys with travel partners, I explore them. They satisfy a part of my desires of exploring a person and forming a time-bound relationship by walking miles after miles together, by getting engaged in conversations, by seeking to know what makes them travel on the same road. This happens gender-irrespective. After every journey I come back home, get down from the irritating bus or lullaby train coach, I realise I am no longer the same person when I started this journey.
Then I wish to travel all by myself. Engage in conversations with the elderly man or the girl sitting opposite to you in the train. The man would be more curious to know what makes a woman of my age travel alone, who should be travelling with her husband and a kid, if not two, to meet their parents during summer vacation. Meet the person who took the next room to you. Get into an interesting conversation and each of our lives becomes a story to the other. I head my way back to hotel and begin my writing job for the day. I think of my parents, someone I love and want to be with at this moment, someone I loved and had so much fun, someone who hasn't forgiven me still. I think of all and put my head on the pillow.
This occupation gives much more than my day job gives at the end of every month. I have an obsession, a compulsion to travel. I do not wish to think I have a home in the days I am on road, yet I long to return home after one journey is over. I long to be with the person I love. To count stars lying under the open sky together.
