Itchy feet

Eyelids begin to open and the roof above is almost swirling. Not cured from my last dream and something faint, maybe the alarm, is screeching in the distance, maybe somewhere near my fingertips.
I open my eyes and turn it off.
The next few moments are mixed with shock and horror. I donot recognise what I see. The bed seems strange and unusually bumpy. The scrunchie, the book and the reading glasses next to the bed are mine though.
Then it sinks in. I am in yet another city, far away from home. The university sweat shirt that I sleep in, the only reminder of life that is the exact opposite of the heat, the penury, the flies, and dirty sheets around. My back-pack is in one corner of the room, my sole companion as I tread all those miles, in search of something I don't yet have and getting to know something I am yet to understand.

All you who sleep tonight
for from the ones you love,
no hand to left or right
and emptiness above-

Sometimes I wonder why my interests are not like those of most of the others I graduated with- the range lying between corporate offices, cut throat competition, companions, weddings, children and such. Not that I have anything personal against them. I remember a time when I had one of those plush jobs. Reckon was even good at it.
Its just that being a tortured traveller can be a little unsettling at times. The high points of my day and life revolve around things that are not tangible, but are fleeting.
I often wonder when I pack my bag yet another time and fasten my walking shoes, in the anticipation of a new place, what it is that I seek. What it is that the entire race of these "tortured travellers" seek.
And yet, bang in the middle of nameless faces, numberless streets, cat calls and occasional undesirable glances later, I know that I am holding on to a piece of treasure. Fleeting treasures, I thus collect and let them be a part of me, as I lug my cart around.

Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

Later during the day, I will settle down with some tea in one of the innumerable, ever colourful street side cafes and write a postcard home. One of those hunky dory ones taken at a tourist hot spot.
Days later, you will receive it, in my chicken scratch writing. Maybe you will smile.
I have my struggles. I have my victories. What I don't have is happiness.

All you who sleep tonight- Vikram Seth