“STOP THE CAR!” I scream with all the air in my lungs. “STOP! LET ME OUT NOW!”
Here I am writing under a red-headed tree, enjoying the perfect winter weather – sunny with a crisp, cooling breeze.
They say travelling in Sri Lanka is the safer, easier version of risky India. Camilla, a Brazilian girl whom I met one night in this little island ferociously nodded at how true this statement was as she had just spent six months in India on her own.
Every morning while I get ready for work, I would see my Ah Ma sitting in the rattan chair at our front porch, enjoying the early morning wind. Her eyes stare blankly at the moving traffic; her mind replaying the days of her youth.
I started travelling, not holidays, not getaways, but really travelling when I was 18. It started in US with a brother and a job, it escalated to Mauritius with a group of strangers and a volunteer stint, and then it evolved to the Middle East with a backpack and a guide book. I gave my heart to the wonders of travel and I never really got it back.