Amid the traffic of the airport, the arrivals and departures, the yelling and screaming of children who despise long flights and trips they will never remember, I sit on a side, neither arriving nor departing, reading Lahiri’s The Namesake. A little Pakistani lady, who is guiding the travellers, asks them where they’re headed to. Brazil, Mexico, London, Hong Kong, Germany are among the list of destinations. I read from time to time in an effort to forget these foreign places, these beautiful luxuries. But I cannot forget that I’m once again a lonely watcher, one who waits impatiently for destinations of her own, for places to see, for people to meet, for planes to sit in, legs crossed, reading a book, taking short plane naps. At times I’m lost in the story of my book, intrigued by the characters and their dilemmas, by Gogol’s love affairs and his parents’ objections. I put the book aside and pointlessly, inattentively watch the rest of the passengers who wait in lines longer than our lunch lines, suddenly enjoying my little comfort zone where I’m lost in fiction, in a story that is not mine.
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This page contains a single entry from the blog posted on July 16, 2006 1:19 AM.
The previous post in this blog was A forbidden taste.
The next post in this blog is The American dream.
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Comments (1)
hi,
I was searching for an article in google and it lead me to your site. I was pretty much amazed by your articles. They are very much deep and full of emotions. I can tell that you're like me. Still searching for answers to millions of questions running in my mind. I hope we'll be able to find the elusive answers to these complicated questions. Good luck!
jun
Posted by jun | July 17, 2006 6:24 AM
Posted on July 17, 2006 06:24