A different kind of life.

I haven’t written in quite a while now, and I reluctantly believe it is from a lack of inspiration rather than a lack of time. Though the latter is an undeniable issue, it's no pardon for a 6-week pause by any stretch of the imagination.

Why? My new life here in Ahmedabad does not consist of the raw ingredients that make up peculiar stories and vivid memories. I am no longer pulled to my matte-black keyboard by a desire to relive and document through the process of writing, but rather feel a grinding subconscious push rooted in guilt and duty - exactly what drove me here today.

But don’t get me wrong, life in Ahmedabad has come with undeniable upgrades. My office no longer suffers from chronic power outages and the lurk of curious lizards. The unbearable heat that slowed my every step, movement and task has been exchanged for the bearable burden of humidity. And my crippling inability to communicate with the strangers around me has been replaced with the gift of broken, yet constructive conversations.

It is for these very reasons though, that my inspiration has escaped me. It’s hard to write a curious story about overindulgent dinners served by complacent waiters in cold rooms of conditioned air. I see no reason to document my latest trip to the mall and local superstore. And though my daily rides in auto rickshaws act as motivation to write a Will, they are no substitute for tandem bicycle rides down heat-waved highways or bus-top gallivanting across rural plains.

While I am writing this though, going through the fickle rolodex of my Ahmedabad memories, I can see the very basis of my apprehension being invalidated. For every luke-warm memory, there is a rich one right next to it that I would be remorseful to lose. I haven’t written about my impromptu ride atop an elephant during a mid-morning tea break at work, the streetlamp-lit basketball game in monsoon rains, or covert trips to the local bootlegger.

I better get writing.