Belonging

I don't really understand it when people talk of wanting to belong. 

I like being a tourist

Fleeting past people and places

Backpack on, water bottle on the side, a sling bag with the essentials

All that I need for a few days to come.

I like being a tourist

I like meeting the strangest of people and 

pretending not to understand a word they say to avoid a conversation

I smile and nod and look away

I couldn't do that to my own

I wouldn't have homes to come back to then. 

I like being a tourist

To not be part of anybody's world

But be a visitor

To see you put on your best behavior for me 

Or sometimes even be ignored

With no burden of a meeting ever again

No burden of the need to collect favors for a rainy day.

I like being a tourist

Thinking passively about a home I collect souvenirs for

A home I can't wait to get away from

And a home I can't wait to get back to

Only to want out again.

Am I even a tourist, but? 

What is my destination? 

Does it matter where I am heading?

As long as I have the open road ahead of me 

And quick change to get me by

And a home to head back to

Do I even need to introspect?

It doesn't matter where I go, what I do, 

It's this few hours of detachment that counts.

This freedom and the high it brings. 

The freedom of not having to belong
The freedom of not having to perform

The freedom of not being a guest at your own home

The freedom of being just someone you meet in a bus

Only to forget.

- Ardhra Prakash

  (February, 2019)