This book, more than an insomnia, is a journey. The insomnia belongs to the one who wrote the book, the journey to the one that made it. Nevertheless, since it also happens to me to walk through the same places the main character walked through, I found an opportunity to provide a short index of those.
I’m not sure if I’m doing this for the illusion that this topographic catalogue, with the power of reality, could give light to this Nocture, in which i’m looking for a Shadow; or for the unreasonable lust that one day some lovers of incongruous paths could use it as a guide.
Antonio Tabucchi, Indian Nocture.
Along this line my journey to India begins.
Ten months of unbearable and flavourful life, marked by the traffic noises and the mantra sounds. A life immersed into the dioxin’s odour and masala’s scent.
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