I despise not travelling. It feels like being bound on an island surrounded by sea water. The beauty of nature set apart, one knows that there are no means of rescue except for having to wait for it. It is upon the stranded to discern flanks for arranging edibles and drinkables. As literal as it gets, to travel is to make a journey. That is universal agreement. The distance is where its impression becomes subjective. One’s idea of travelling could be to take a trip that covers a considerable distance and time. An itinerary complemented by a rail journey or one in flight could be a preeminent bottom line; however, a trip made within limits of one’s residential city is very well an option. Like the one from suburb to the library in the town’s centre or a journey from outskirts to the heart for a concert counts as travel. You devote time to getting from one part of the city to another, are quartered at your destination for a few hours, and indulge in an activity that is worth your time, before heading home. An outing of a kind as such demands a sizeable chunk of attention from one’s day. Maybe a whole.
I am fond of travelling in my city. Because of its intimate familiarity, the benign patterns of its naturally-ageing roads, its alternative and shorter beats and most of all, for the reassuring repute of arriving home at the end of the day. There is nothing that tops the balmy awareness of coming back to someone. Irrespective of a day well-spent. Or otherwise.
I travelled to Kochi in Southern India earlier this week as I wanted to visit the much heard about Biennale. The prospect of going solo first time after my marriage to Pachai was both
exciting and anxiety-ridden. I hoped the Biennale to supplement my otherwise collocating writing skills by helping me broaden the thought-process and draw parallels. As much as the visit was to seek stories through visual nodes and all things artsy, the vacationing mindset was a forbidden fruit. But of course, things do not always happen according to one’s way of thinking. Especially, when there is an itinerary.
The first day turned out to be a bouncer, for there was to visit a political official of national importance. Biennale locations close by were refrained from opening up to the public. Call it a day wasted, or the lack of finishing one’s homework before planning the visit.
It wasn’t a feel-good sentiment, on having been turned away from the venues.
The sun had only crept overhead, and there was nothing to do. The prospect of returning to the inn was looming and particularly disengaging. I left for a view of the well-knit sea overlooking the Kochi Port and Harbour. For a novice, the fishermen working their nets in this belt is remarkable and intriguing. The afternoon sun reflected pebbles of diamonds on the facet of the curling salt water. The surface of the sea bounced and gleamed, enduring its blueish-green sheen for as long as one’s eyesight extended. Waves upon waves crashed and burned each other in pursuit of making it to the shore. They could have been either fiercely competitive or were only playing as a team. It was hard to discern. Or decide. A far end of the sea held lofty sailing vessels as its hostage, the lineup building an impressive spectacle. The shore played a breezy tune to the kink in its strand. The view drifted seamlessly into the horizon as a well-conceptualised three-dimensional model, but it didn’t add up. None of it did.
Something was amiss.
The Blues & the Greens: Caged, Framed & Moored
Travelling without Pachai, if not for an agenda of research and learning, isn’t my favourite kind.