When the bus came to its final halt in Koomankavu, the place did not seem unfamiliar to Ravi. He had never been there before, but he had seen himself coming to this forlorn outpost beneath the immense canopy of trees, with its dozen shops and shacks raised on piles; he had seen it all in recurrent premonitions - the benign age of the trees, their riven bark and roots arched above the earth. (O.V.Vijayan, The Legends of Khasak)

Somewhere around Chidambaram, I was startled awake as the bus took a sharp turn. It was a hamlet trapped in time; mud huts, hay piles, dung cakes, old trees, everything the colour of summer dust. I remembered Koomankavu and went back to sleep, hoping that the bus would never arrive and the journey would never end. The ennui of a tired traveller's journey back home is as inspiring as the anxiety on the eve of the departure.

Agreed, all journeys must come to an end. But dragonflies wait on the shores for a hot current that would lift them up and drop on some distant continent. Storks flap their tireless wings across snow-capped mountains to follow an itinerary coded in their genes. Children go on dreaming of the sail past the map-blue seas even after they grow up and forget about it. There are so many people waiting with so many stories.

I'm on a treasure hunt. The destination is the journey itself and the reward MEMORIES OF WANDERLUST.

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