I have already become a foreigner to my own country. A foreigner who needs no translation, though. I find myself sleeping at places full of white tourists and India-wannabes; find myself dressed more like them in just bought colorful scarves and shapeless harem pants while the locals aspire toward the western garb that we try to leave behind at home; find myself gravitating toward eating holes that offer a solace to foreign palates or rundown bookstores that hide dusty Indian pages. I feel at home in places where there are other single foreign women travelers sleeping behind neighboring doors. But I also have stories of a decade ago when I was a local. Of when I had no clue who I was, and now that I think I know better, my identity is much more confused.

I’ve lost a chunk of sentimentality, a huge load of attachment and sense of duty, and now I feel guilty for having made myself foreign, so alien, so heartless.

At the same time, cursed by a beggar child, indifferent to the curse but with its memory lingering, I know and recognize this place but feel disappointed in it.

If not for the people, I would not come again.