The last map I studied intently was my mother’s face before I left India last Sunday. It is my most familiar and favourite territory. I know its every new line, its creases, its folds, its moles. At 88, it is a detailed chart of a long, human voyage.
I have been thinking of maps and journeys for months because most of us right now are marooned. Perhaps we seek always what we are denied. I travel only to India to be with my unwell mother, but mostly we’re lost in the strangest of ways. Where does one go when one cannot actually go?