I used to have an interesting fantasy about moving. I believed that I could move any day and I should be prepared. This could be a forced move or a planned move. An example of forced could be, they could be an earthquake tommorow and we would have to evacuate the house and I should have a suitcase at hand with all the stuff I need. Or my favourite uncle would come and this time he would really take me with him. Again that one suitcase would be handy. Another example was that I would have this big fight with my parents over some big issue(like I never want to study again etc) and then if they didn’t agree I would walk out leaving them astounded. If they didn’t call me back I would need to have that one handy suitcase.

In all this the recurring theme was of that one handy suitcase. I believed very strongly that all a man ever needs could be packed into a suitcase. What couldn’t come in it was not needed and could be discarded. I thought to myself that at any time in my life I should be able to stick by this rule. The trouble was when I made this rule I had no money and no hope of making any and so it was easy to construct and live by these ideals. When the time came to move finally I realised that there was no way I could fit some 30 years of my life in one suitcase. But it all fit in the back of a car and so I didn’t feel too bad. Also I argued myself that my clothes still came in one bag, rest was all books and music which can be discarded easily.And then in a couple of years it was time to move again and this time I realised my belonging had grown exponentially and worse I was calling furniture and other knick knacks as my belonging.And now I move again. I move tommorow and this time it will take a truck to fit our stuff in.

I still haven’t given up the ideal of packing it all one day into one suitcase, in one mind and eventually in one earthen pot.


Its been a while since I last wrote. Since then I have travelled 2 different continents, met some very interesting people and some not so interesting people. Had some interesting conversations and some frustrating ones. And yet a lot has remained the same. I still have this urge in me to write and yet no clue what to write about. There are still millions of people around the world who wake up everyday morning unsure of where their next meal will come from and George Bush continues to speak nonsense, the only difference is that this time no one is paying attention except people like me.

I have always wanted to write about this urge in me to write. It is probably my only creative expression and it helps me connect with something inside me. But this urge is only to write and doesn’t quite help me on what to write. Most times when I start to write, I have a blank mind and I wait for something to reveal itself to me by itself. And yet, when I look around me there is so much to write. There is happy stuff like how i love the summers in london and the feel of sun on my skin, of how I was destined to go to Cairo one day. Or there is stuff about the perils of living in a world which doesn’t have a balance of power, or this book that I gave up half way because I thought it was screwing with my mind.

There is this, that and much more and yet when I put my finger tips to the keyboard the mind goes blank. Maybe it is because my mind looks for a connection in everything and never finds it. That elusive (non existent) link that connects everything around me, that connects me to the world, that connects my present to my past and future, that connects me to myself and gives me a level of understanding that I yearn. I do everything to find this link- I read everything I get, I speak to everyone I meet, I listen to everything I hear and yet I don’t get it. I don’t get myself and I don’t get the world. I don’t know why I act in a particular way.

One day i want to stop the live and learn and do a live and know. I want to get to a day when I know myself and everything around me. One day I just want to be.