fighting windmills

i just finished reading don quixote, the book that has served as my only constant companion in the past month and a half. the idea to read it had occured to me long ago but i was always "too busy". finding it in pahar ganj at the start of my trip seemed a conclusive way to end my excuses. at times its 760 pages felt tedious, or at least heavy on my back, but it was with tears i let it end.



perhaps don quixote's madness has seemed dear to me, as it is the madness of a delusional traveller. i often wonder if what i'm doing is romantic, ridiculous and indulgent. maybe i am the victim of too many indiana jones moves, kipling books and lonely planet tv shows, just as don quixote was a victim to the tales of knight errantry. perhaps i empathised with him as people made sport of his love and suffering because in india i am always the butt of some joke that i don't understand. if only they knew what it was like to be completely out of what they know and constantly conspicuous at every moment. i belong to this place no more than don quixote was a knight- but why must our true selves be confined to the time and place in which were born? although the don's actions were foolish and mad one cannot deny that his heart and bravery were true.



i think that in the western world, in our current age, the deluge of choices and lifestyles presented to us causes great confusion and difficulty to properly belong anywhere. we have more supposed freedom but less certainty, less comfort in who we are. if you can choose to be anything, what do you choose? how can we determine what are windmills what are giants that need to be fought? perhaps the importance lies not in what we fight but the spirit in which we fight.