"And now the weeks will speed up and fly away from each other, after crawling - thankfully - like a tortoise, allowing time for as much soaking up as possible. It's a week ago since I landed in Mumbai. And yet it seems like yesterday. And yet it seems like another lifetime. Nothing has changed back here, yet it has. The workplace is ready to hike up its skirts, and settle in another neighbourhood. My DVD remote control now only works on a strange angle. My finances have run very low and it will take me a long time to achieve my renovations. Yet I've seen people living hand to mouth, and my needs can take a while to be met. Why the urgency, when I have so much? My toilet hums - it needs to flush gently all night, but I shut the tap off. I add its fixing to the endless list of Things That Must Be Done.
I long to put India into some art and writing. My muse has hips that sway to the side, that shifts the weight to one leg, that flicks his/her third and fourth wrist, elegantly posing with fingers. Mirrors shine from a teal blue ceiling, but reflect with the blurr of polished metal. The memory of a red bedspread with a constellation of mirrored stars. The memory of a large and beautiful Nataraja - polished limbs with the plumpness and muscle tone; my soul rises to the surface and into my fingertips, the way it did when I saw Degas' pastel-fleshed ballerina baring her back for a bath.
My suitcase full of treasures awaits, as do the final pages of my travel diary. If I leave them, perhaps my holiday won't be truly over? But now comes the good part, the ever-lasting memories, the golden hue, the nostalgia, the hindsight. Did I really not go to a spice market? How did I not notice Holi? Why did I not bring back a sari, a salwar kameez, a Siva in Nataraja pose? Because these are for next time. Because there will be a next time."
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