I often wonder about the source that motivates my aimless wandering. Having arrived at multiple answers where deduction does not hold true, I get compelled to succumb to a million other thoughts which crave for my attention. But during a rare prolonged free time, I do answer my own question, though not in exact terms. Why do I call myself a wanderer? And, what is it of stagnation that apprehends me? A couple of years ago, Dhanbad was my whole world. However, I was always convinced that moving to another city was inevitable. It seems too recent to be nostalgic about that gang of jobless friends, the big house with a rickety look, annoying relatives. I find the idea of living in a small town not inferior but convenient. If I chose to be at Dhanbad, I could have become a lot more than what I am now. The reputation of ancestral goodwill and the profession of law could have sailed me beyond every inch of uncertainty and misery that comprises my life now. Yet for reasons very typical of any ...

The restlessness is seeping in. Chances of my committing acts of flamboyance or adventure have become imminent. But on the crossroads, I still stand aghast by the threat of adverse consequences. However, it is certain that the prevalent eagerness will overwhelm any other emotion soon, given the rate at which it is intensifying. I ask myself - what has changed? And a silence follows. A little while later, I answer, probably in order to justify the silence. It’s my age. I already feel guilty for not exploring a lot of options in my early life. And if I miss out on the 20s, I might end up being more repentant. Am I, by writing this, trying to vent some of the trauma this impatience has caused me? May be, but this will not help me escape the growing urge to insanity. Sometimes, I feel of letting myself loose and as they say, “go with the flow”. But, I can’t resist confronting questions like – What if this actually ends up making me more miserable? Anyway, the unpredictability seems to be ...