Why I do not write travelogues

I have tried, I have. To store all happy. Document it, with evidence if possible, photos, tickets, videos, postcards, lamps, earrings. To beat, I think, the insecurity of losing happy, to have it cheat on me. I feel like an impostor on happy. I am scared when it leaves, to never return, there will be nothing but these words left for evidence. For remembrance. Words I will eventually come to dislike for their lack of encompassing all my feelings in all their intensity.

So much pressure on poor words.

So if I were to write a travelogue, in words, in the intensity one feels when they travel to a new place, a new people, I would write forever, describing every moment then describing every feeling with the most minute detail.

So much patience I do not possess.

But attempts must be made. I have to start today, because when there is something you must do, there is nothing else to do but do it. So I will write about the guy I made eye-contact with in Jama Masjid, about the children who played catch with birds outside it, about the big spiders in Mahabaleshwar, the man talking to his baby in a cafe in Pune. I will write about life and death in Banaras. And if I have courage enough, I will even write about the dismantled fair behind my home.


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