the day I cried in Vienna!

A beautiful sight in the central streets of Vienna

I still remember clearly my visit to Vienna, the opulent, marvellous, palace-filled city- a city I only read about in my formidable International Relations papers where agreements were signed to define much of populations unaware of this waltzy-European capital. What an experience, for the mind/self of academics and a mind in need of comfort presented in form of cakes.

Travelling can be exhausting. Exhausting beyond the imaginative understanding of the word. When you are on the road for weeks, when you are saying goodbye to those living on the other side of this blessed planet, saying goodbye to your heartland heading to your homeland, stumbling and clutching on to the last few days in a continent where so many people still think of your country as a land of spices, Bollywood and elephants, when you are obliged to take the bus to Vienna, heading to walk around the city for a day to check out palaces- tick off something from a redundant bucketlist. No I am not taking my privilege for granted, I only wish to share the intensity with which being far far away from the stability of a ‘home’ or ‘people you love’ or your ‘centres of gravity’ can shape your experience. Travelling can be exhausting, as is life, which is why it is essential to experience this state while on the road.

Travel makes you realise that life is time-bound. Travel makes you realise that every moment, every being, every atom and crystal of existence is precious. Fading away and burning softly in embers of time. Travel brings in you the sensibility of facing head on what faces you. Awareness strikes you hard, as does reality.

I remember clearly my day in Vienna eating in just about every cafe in the corner, walking across the whole city, finding the office of Vice somewhere in between, visiting palaces et all. I was sitting in the corner of a cafe with some Viennese chocolat cake whose real-local name escapes me as comfort for leaving behind 2 people in a shady bus stop in Hungary, right opposite a woman in her 70s, a man in his 60s. Both were on their own, one with a newspaper hiding the face, another thinking deeply or perhaps settling into the day. In between all of this was a young girl all of 20 softly sobbing feeling like the world had ended because there was so much being left behind in the mighty Europe. But it looks to me now that the girl moved on to Munich and had some good beer and saw some Hitler monuments and met a wonderful girl by the name Eva and so on.

Today I am remembering Vienna and the incessant tears upon a rather gloomy December-January. These are the days I yearn to be on the road. In a few days I move on to Parvati Valley for a personal project of writing a poésie book, with illustrations with one of my closest people. I hope that turns successful.


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