Each site visit is different; each travel is a story that deserves to be told. Some for the fun, some for adventure, some for the life altering experiences they are, some for the sadness and loneliness they bring. No matter what, each story deserves to be told. As I sit in the Mumbai airport, waiting to go home, there is a sense of Melancholy.
The last 10 days in the city have almost flown by. Mumbai is one of the cities I love coming to. I have friends here, some at work and some outside and they always try to make me feel welcome. My mother once accused me of using my travel to escape, escape my family. I forgave her a long time ago, but those words still sting. I agree at some level travel is a much-needed escape, and I understand why she, who doesn’t have to, would resent my travel.
But see the thing is, my mother hears my stories, hears of the fun I have. What she doesn’t hear, what she will never know, is the times, when I have been lonely in a hotel room without anyone to talk to, when I can’t sleep because the bed isn’t my bed. She will never know of the times it felt weird because the toothbrush I used wasn’t my usual one (I have a separate one for my travel kit), where my towel didn’t feel the same. She won’t know of the times when I had no hot water, but still took a bath, because I stunk. She won’t know of the times when I got acidity burns because of the food I had to eat for days on end, or when I almost threw up because I was so repulsed by it. My brother will never know how many times I think of him. How many times I crack a joke that no one’s get, no one will get but him. They won’t know how many times I have been scared out of my mind because I can’t get through to them. How scared I was when I was held captive by some local villagers or when I was almost arrested in a foreign country for no fault of ours.
My home is troubled, yes, but my family is my safety net, and when I travel, when I am on site, I don’t have that.