i just found this, written sometime in early october.
somewhere amidst the grayed and endless colonnades of academe and the mad pursuit of an intellectual life, i seem to have stopped asking myself: why? why am i doing what i do and why am i asking the questions i ask? why am i interested? and this why, the greatest question of all, has steadily grown to become the blackest mote of my eye. so now, on this rainy wednesday morning, i awake to find myself both blind and lost. well, perhaps lost isn't the right word, you're not really lost if you don't have a destination in mind. no, i awake to find myself blind and adrift.
the loss of my interest in religion as an academic subject preceded, indeed anticipated, my current indifference to spirituality. since childhood, religion and spirituality have been the foundations on which i've built my intellectual identity. the erosion of those supports left me grasping at straws, and by the end of the masters program i felt completely enervated, thoroughly eviscerated. so when v. suggested i study in india, i thought i'd found a way to solve my problems. india, oh generous and bountiful india. countless souls have come flocking to you with their ennui and you've graciously granted them each your merciful wisdom--or at the very least, a reality check. but for me, nothing. nothing what-so-ever. your own flesh-and-blood, i wasn't exotic and exciting enough for you, was that it? no inspiration or solace for me, just heightened social anxiety and black cracked soles that would take weeks to heal. i'm sorry that i didn't greet you like an ecstatic stranger or even a long-estranged relative come home. you know how i am, and i'm not like that. don't blame me for seeing past all your colors, magic, and glorious past, for catching sight of your bleakness, opportunism, and ignorance. i still loved you, but i suppose that didn't matter.
and the cracks continued to spread, reaching deeper and broader, a rapidly disintegrating earthen dam. my entire sense of self was coming undone, and there was nothing i could do. nothing but go on, as if nothing was happening, as if the end of the world was not at hand. so i read. i read rilke and saw the bare walls of my rented room undulate into a terrible roaring whiteness that nearly swallowed me whole. i read kamala das and felt my soul struggle to breathe under the crushing weight of my dull body. i read kancha iliah and felt guilty for being a vegetarian. i read gandhi and felt guilty for liking beautiful things. i read emma goldman and felt guilty for being alive. finally, i read e.m. forster and he understood me, but embarrassingly too much. after him, i stopped reading and started walking. restless walking in abids, in the muslim slums, on my building's rooftop. i wanted to leave, there was nothing more to do here. v. was convinced i was depressed, i was convinced i was dying.
the loss of my interest in religion as an academic subject preceded, indeed anticipated, my current indifference to spirituality. since childhood, religion and spirituality have been the foundations on which i've built my intellectual identity. the erosion of those supports left me grasping at straws, and by the end of the masters program i felt completely enervated, thoroughly eviscerated. so when v. suggested i study in india, i thought i'd found a way to solve my problems. india, oh generous and bountiful india. countless souls have come flocking to you with their ennui and you've graciously granted them each your merciful wisdom--or at the very least, a reality check. but for me, nothing. nothing what-so-ever. your own flesh-and-blood, i wasn't exotic and exciting enough for you, was that it? no inspiration or solace for me, just heightened social anxiety and black cracked soles that would take weeks to heal. i'm sorry that i didn't greet you like an ecstatic stranger or even a long-estranged relative come home. you know how i am, and i'm not like that. don't blame me for seeing past all your colors, magic, and glorious past, for catching sight of your bleakness, opportunism, and ignorance. i still loved you, but i suppose that didn't matter.
and the cracks continued to spread, reaching deeper and broader, a rapidly disintegrating earthen dam. my entire sense of self was coming undone, and there was nothing i could do. nothing but go on, as if nothing was happening, as if the end of the world was not at hand. so i read. i read rilke and saw the bare walls of my rented room undulate into a terrible roaring whiteness that nearly swallowed me whole. i read kamala das and felt my soul struggle to breathe under the crushing weight of my dull body. i read kancha iliah and felt guilty for being a vegetarian. i read gandhi and felt guilty for liking beautiful things. i read emma goldman and felt guilty for being alive. finally, i read e.m. forster and he understood me, but embarrassingly too much. after him, i stopped reading and started walking. restless walking in abids, in the muslim slums, on my building's rooftop. i wanted to leave, there was nothing more to do here. v. was convinced i was depressed, i was convinced i was dying.