Travel Log #7

A bus ride back home after a long day, listening to The Smiths is sometimes all I need.

The sun is setting, so its golden rays reflect on the grass blades and beam in between the tree leaves without bothering my eyes. They make the saris worn by the women more luminous and colourful, glistening as they twist and turn. The greenery, that is so abundant here, the more I look at it the more I feel like I’m healing inside from something I never knew was there.

The music, upbeat yet depressing. The greenery, lush yet split by construction sites. The women, beautifully dressed yet undergoing harsh physical labour. The men, happy yet impoverished.

It is everything and it is nothing.

It’s home and it isn’t. But it’s me.