Home Sweet Home

Just came back after a grueling 42 hour trip to home. Lost my luggage and I come home to see that someone vandalised my car in a vain attempt to steal stuff. Not exactly an exiciting way to come home. More chronicles of "Swades" follow soon. Funny moment was that when my flight was accelerating to leaving the runway in Bombay, I was reading Shashi Tharoor's "Bookless in Baghdad" where he quotes Rushdie (The Ground Beneath her Feet)

India, my terra infirma, my maelstrom, my cornucopia, my crowd. India, my too-muchness, my everything at once, my Hug-me, my fable, my mother, my father and my first great truth. It may be that I am not worthy of you, for I have been imperfect, I confess. I may not comprehend what you are becoming, what perhaps you already are, but I am old enough to say that this new self of yours is an entity I no longer want, or need, to understand.

India, fount of my imagination, source of my savagery, breaker of my heart.

Goodbye