Although I do not like this idea of “finding yourself” or any of that hippy nonsense, I’d like to return onto the fog which seemed to follow me for my first few weeks. It was fitting, because I knew so little about where I was, or what I would do and what, even, my blank pages would say. And I think, if you were to come here, you would find a similar smoke. In a country of paradox and titles, I don’t think that fog will ever lift. But in all the hot air I wrote up, I had at least one Indian clarity: things will happen that we will never expect, or plan for. With a little faith, a fear becomes mystery.