I still remember that day. Curled up in a blanket beside my mother, I was listening to her story – “and Siddhartha left his house in search of the true meaning of life,” she said. It rained all night, our room smelled like the earth’s belly, black fumes from the candle tried to touch the ceiling.
“What if Siddhartha goes hungry?” I asked. How stupid was I? For Siddhartha is God.
Then, 18 years after, I came back to the same room. It was raining – drops trickled down the windowpanes. Curled up in a blanket beside me, my mother was listening to the news. “Half a million migrants have walked to their villages from India’s big cities since the 21-day lockdown began.”
The question remained the same: what if they go hungry?
