I am in the middle of nowhere.
Such a place, we all know, doesn’t exist as far as geography is concerned. You are always in the middle of somewhere or at the edge of some place. But it always sounds better to say that you are in the middle of nowhere. That phrase has certain expanse; some more width than your exact location. It creates that mystery and sprinkles a sense of romanticism to whatever description may follow the phrase.
So, I am in the middle of nowhere.
The boat I am on, is anchored here, in the middle of the water, the late afternoon sun sparkles diamonds all over the water and coconut trees lean over, as if to peek and see what I write in this post.
Rest of the family has had a wonderful lunch and are now lulled into sleep by the slow rocking of the boat. I am out on the deck, looking at the sneaky trees and listening to the silence that surrounds our boat.
Far away, in the fishing village that I can barely see, a few colourful boats are anchored, devoid of any activity. Perhaps someone else is describing this feeling in his or her own way.
Nothingness is a difficult state to be in. Even such thick and opaque calmness outside does little to calm the ruckus in your head. Earlier today, as I walked through the market street in this town, I imagined the townsfolk looking at me and being able to recognise that ruckus in my ahead – ah, city folk – they must have said. I have been here for a few hours now, and the calmness is taking over.
Nothing matters now, though it won’t be like this for long.
But, for now, I am in the middle of nowhere.
Malvan Backwaters, April 22, 1625hrs