I have moved around a lot in life. I won’t say travelled because that implies a certain level of conscious effort in the act of moving. That hasn’t been the case for me, no. I’ve been a passive participant, a pillion rider if you will as my family moved to different towns as a consequence of dad’s work. He moved, we moved.
I’ve lived in the most modest of dwellings, sharing a room with our unit of four. I’ve lived in the choicest of neighbourhoods, the cohabitants of my room, my books and my mother’s old printer. My brother always said I picked the wrong room when we moved to a new house. The largest room understandably reserved for the parents, I picked the second largest one, always, subconsciously asserting my right as the older child. It never occurred to me that Sid (the brother) did not object much. He told me much later that it was obvious that the second largest room would be sought out to house the computer and by extension, the printer. Our parents are lawyers and wake up at early hours to prepare for court, printing out stacks of documents and waking up the inhabitant of the room, hence. Sid had foresight. And I always picked wrong.
Coming back to the point. What in fact is the point I do not know as this is very close to a rambling, just a more structured rambling punctuated with what I would like to think of as insightful observations and witty repartees.
Years later sitting on the patio of an old Victorian house with a german backpacker – for the benefit of the reader – who for me was C, the housemate, I relived memories of moving and settling and was enraptured by her travel stories, stories that were the result of a conscious choice she made, to travel. This was in so many ways different from what I did. Travelling to me was a byproduct of decisions and not the end goal.
I had moved to Melbourne in 2016. Before that were sporadic stints in different cities in India for college and then work followed by an ill-advised move to the US to study a subject I neither liked nor particularly understood. I had travelled a few South East Asian countries with my then boyfriend and met people from different parts of the world, heard their stories and made a mental note to do the same, someday. I’m still waiting on that day, no new destinations added to a road map I’d hope to have ticked off by now.
In hindsight I have realized the key ingredient it takes to travel Is confidence. An arch nemesis since the time I could remember, I have tried time and again to befriend that elusive bastard, in vain. To travel you need to be able to trust in your instincts, to know that if you are stuck on an unknown road with an empty tank of gas, you would still be okay. To know that if you walked into a room full of strangers, you would be okay. To know that the patterns and numbers on a piece of paper that somewhere in the world was currency, would have to be deftly handed out at cafes and stores. This thought overwhelms me. The fear needs to be conquered, how is the question.
Maybe mulling over this thought, pen in hand, books spread out in front of me in a Cafe in Mumbai is not enough. How, still remains the question. Maybe it’s time to take a trip. A trip to a new place or just a journey to self-love and recovery. But I do know, I need to get moving.
