Another India (25)

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That day I met H. for the first time. I was staying at a family-run guesthouse and every morning the owners – Henry and his wife – prepared a sumptuous Kerala breakfast for the visitors. I sat across from her over a small wooden table that, draped with green cloth, could only seat three at best. H. asked me what I did. I wasn’t actually doing anything. I was in Cochin for that exact reason. But I felt I couldn’t say that.

I write. ‘What do you write?’. To put it simply, what is expected of me. Do you write? ‘I write for myself, but that’s it’. And like that, I’d forgotten what I’d left behind. Just then, I remembered where writing meditates and life is resolved.


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