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Finally, I was entirely there, ironically right in the middle of someplace nowhere. My left foot set firm in moist sand trying to pull it down yet somehow it forbade giving in, reminiscent of a life gone by while my right leg hung loose on the side over the firm tract of land, bold cracks sketched all over as though by a sharpened pencil running freely in all directions of the cold desert as though asking me which one would I choose in the near yet seemingly far horizon I was staring into. I looked ahead over the denim shreds, muddy and ripped in a bid to protect my left knee, which having gotten me thus far peaked with pride as I saw the sunset over it. Leaving from work heading in distinct directions it’s staff of rays filled up the cracks, fitting into them as though custom-made the whole day just so as to drive right in at dusk, alongside the supplies of water it had borrowed from the sand underneath my past to nurture and fill in the gaps of what I perceived was my soon to be future. I kept looking at it as it disappeared behind a tight cuddle of vapour bags, leaving a burning impression of its disk, it’s subtle saffron not willing to leave my eyes as I looked down and ahead of my right knee to drown it over a calm lagoon of still water amidst the white sands of the Nubra Valley. Yet it emerged back under the meditating slate of blue Zen water, still as though a carpet of mirror left behind by the wandering traders atop their rare breed of dual hump camels crossing the ancient silk route. So was I(though on my bike), having been engrossed in the daily trades of life since I was 16, earning a barter on my time from having done odd jobs to quitting as a banker a month back, I’d been riding all through the Himalayan hamlets courtesy the broken ‘highways’ these past few weeks. Having pressed pause, thinking about something we’re not used to in a mechanical city life where everything is pre-defined; what now, where next? Nothing moved, except the blades of grass now and then whenever the breeze played touch and go. There was no sound except the occasional chanting amidst monastery chimes and bell tolls in the distance at the Diskit Gompa, one of the oldest monasteries in Ladakh and home to one of the tallest statues of Buddha. My lips had gone dry, and so had my throat, there was no taste only the drunk dryness of Himalayan air. Camel droppings in and around the dunes were the only reason the sense of smell got summoned every now and then. The eyeballs moved as best as they could, but nothing had changed, except the colour tone as the sun kept sliding down languorously as though eager to go to bed. I checked for the nth time, yet there wasn’t a single tower willing to get up on my phone. Funny we crave silence, the absence of networks, the secrecy in nature while in our cities, and once there we go back to being network begging, data deprived bigots. Nowhere to go, no place to hide, no net to flix and/or chill; outward travel you realise is planned, it’s a game of logistics and movement, but it takes that rarest moment of nothingness to set out on a voyage within, not some cliché on the gram or some lit travel billboard marketing a trip to the alps to go “find yourself”. All that you need is absolute zilch. Nothing is what you need. Having lived in and around myself for decades, it took me thousands of miles to traverse away from a place we call home, to make a “local” connection with myself. It might be the in-thing to say nowadays but what you need to realise is that what you seek is right there, but what you need to get there is for you to give up; because all that we ever need is us to ourselves minus everything and everybody else.