Mysore haunts me even after a year of my estrangement from the city. The roads where I walked and waited all those interminable hours for that elusive bus, the marble Swami Vivekananda statue which stood forlorn and forgotten in the circle until one day it was discarded in a nearby park and replaced with a huge bronze one, the amphitheatre (Vanaranga) at Rangayana where I spent many a lost evening, the University paths where my sis and I collected gulganji seeds and searched for knowledge among the old buildings once frequented by the greats of Kannada literature... I miss all but one part of the city - the so-called litterateurs and intellectuals who claim to be an authority on all and sundry under the sun. I once asked a colleague about the books written by a famous 'litterateur' of Mysore and she replied she didn't know. Nobody knew. I searched the net and found the titles. They just talk, talk and talk. Why?
“ What is the feeling when you're driving away from people, and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It's the too huge world vaulting us, and it's goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.” -- Jack Kerouac (American Poet and Novelist) From what I have seen and admired in humans, they are eternal optimists. Goodbyes seem to break us, but we straighten up and walk, holding our head high, blinking away our tears. And as regards the specks of people dispersing, when something moves away, something else comes near. Guess that's how laws of nature move. If a time comes when nothing else comes near, it's when we will become really alone; alone to live and love life without any reason, taking the next step forward.
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