I'm in London.

I didn't expect to be in London. I expected to be in India. Hyderabad.

It's meant to be quite a cool place, Hyderabad.

The colours aren't fading yet, and the endless din of the bazaar rings still in my ears. The smells, the whole gamut of them, from enchanting to pungent to wretched all linger yet in my nostrils.

I note the heat by its absence.

The why's and wherefore's, the reasons for an adventure cut short; they echo, fade and sometimes I wonder why I'm back here. I've forgotten already.

Well, not really. I know why I'm here. But it's just not a good enough reason. Not a good enough reason to have left before half-time. I let it slide past and try to realise that in spite of it all, I'm here. I'm back.

And I've little clue as to what I'm going to do and where I'm going to live.

I didn't expect to be here.

I've a notebook to fill. Diary pages to fill, scribbled notes to make sense of before it all starts to fade. The words came and Delhi took 20 pages. There's Lucknow and Varanasi and Khajuraho and Orchha and Gwalior and Ahilya to follow while they're still vivid, bright in my mind's eye. To try, somehow, to distil the experience of ten days in India into words that do justice to the impact I felt.

I expect I'll go back.