Little Crooked House

Still not happy, but I need to write.

I think I'm losing touch with myself. In the past three weeks, I've lost a lot of things that were really important to me. And now, I'm just kind of existing. Floating.

Waking up, going to college, coming home, sleeping, eating dinner, sleeping again. That's my life. Or at least, that's how it feels.

I guess I'm disillusioned because I thought coming to Delhi would wake me up. But it hasn't. It's deadened me.

I miss everything about Calcutta. I miss the smell of the rain and the broken pavements and the tea and Graphiti on Sunday mornings. I miss the the plants on the terrace- especially Pokey- and I miss the eagles that sleep on the paraphet come sundown. I miss playing Dota and CounterStrike at the gaming place, I miss the egg rolls at the Dhaba, I miss warm and slow sunshine days at the Tolly. I miss my mother.

I want to go back more than anything. I don't belong in Delhi. And it's all very well to say everyone has to leave home sometime, but shouldn't you go somewhere where there's soul? Delhi has no soul. I see glimpses of it sometimes though, in the broad tree lined streets and in the red stone of old homes and the freshness in the sky. But it's always snatched away somehow and hidden behind the mindless sweaty faces and the ugly yellow concrete because it's not supposed to exist.

Or maybe it's not Delhi. Maybe it's me.

I always read somewhere that happiness is supposed to be an intrinsic thing. I haven't felt happy for a very long time. I have my good moments- moments where I'm just gloriously glad to be alive. But otherwise, there's this constant dull ache which sometimes drifts into numbness.

Will try to be more chirpy next time.