The Department of Home Affairs is not the place to go if you want to go places. Unfortunately, it's the only place that issues passports so here I am moving at 2m/h in a Line that stretches halfway to the moon.
The mood in our queue is pretty glum, which probably comes as a surprise to our beaming president smiling down at us from a
framed photo on the wall. Life's always rosy from up there it seems.
I shift my weight from side to side trying various breathing exercises to ease the searing pain in my back. I steer my thoughts to the
tranquil water outside the Taj Mahal. The Delhi backpackers I booked for the first five nights. Mumbai, Kolkata, Bangalore.
Our line moves forward 10 centimetres igniting a wave of hope. It's small-scale hope, though. Nothing like the hope I felt when a bag of blood saved my life. Geez, if I could, I would take the
donor with me to India to show him or her what they gave me: a chance to see where I come from.
And a lifetime to figure out where I'm going.