It was a cold evening. I was seated on a bench near XX, watching the XX filled with couples
My phone was away; I had tired of taking photos and hunting for wifi so I can feed me social media accounts. I had a long wait ahead. My friends were off doing their own activities. I was stuck with a slightly sprained foot, courtesy the cobbled path that my feet thus used to Bombay’s potholed rads, weren’t able to handle. At that moment, I was glad I couldn’t walk as much. It meant I HAD to take a break and sit down.
I looked around. There was chatter in the air, streaming up in spiral and mingling around soapy bubbles. On my right were the stalls where we had eaten breakfast earlier in the day – sausages dripping in fat, crispy salty potato crisps on a stick and pancakes. There were a lot of couples around, and I quickly suppressed the slightest twinge of jealousy.
I remember all this because I was training my mind to forget about my phone (yes, it is an addiction) and concentrate on what was happening around me.
Then, it hit me. I was happy. I was truly happy and it wasn’t just a fleeting moment of happiness. I could feel a glow within me; no, everything didn’t turn rosy and sparkly.
I was happy because I was on a long holiday with two people I had grown to love on the trip. I was happy I could afford and plan a trip completely on my own. I was happy that despite the sprain, I could still walk about and do all I had planned. I was happy because I was travelling. Travelling made me happy.
It wasn’t a life-changing decision in that I didn’t come back home, leave my job and just decide to travel. I did come back completely refreshed and at peace with myself.
I made a few promises to myself that day – I would write more, I would definitely travel more and I would be grateful for everything in my life.
The writing and travelling bit: it’s why I am here.