Gripped by uncertainty I fled to India shambolic and desperate seeking light to deliver me from the dark horrors of Melbourne life. I wanted God in a hurry and India had over thirty million of them , I wasn’t greedy, one would do, as there sure as hell wasn’t one back in the jungle of Melbourne streets. I wanted to lose myself, to become anonymous, to be free from all things Australian. I wanted to be a citizen of the world but my passport said otherwise, Australia was stamped on my soul, and my soul screamed let me out of here. I left my shit in a house in North Carlton to people I didn’t know. My bed, books, photos of my mother, photos of riots and mystery when I thought photography was my way out of misery, I dumped the lot in a broken down student house and worse than that I dumped my cat Matt in another house in Carlton to more people I didn’t know , looked at Matt turned around and walked away . I left my share house for my first rooming house complete with a large Madam who told me , ‘don’t want no trouble , do ya hear me’. The toilet was down a long corridor. I sat down and noticed someone had taken a dump a good distance from the bowl on the ground. I stared at it for a few minutes as if in a daze. This turd was sending me a message. I got up walked out into the sunlight and took a tram to the Coffee Palace. I had two weeks before my flight to India. Two weeks in another shithole on a street known for its hookers, nuns, and junkies. Redemption Street for the losers, no hopers, dangerous hop heads at the John Lennon Bar , and the hair dresser not far from Fitzroy Street with her ultra short skirt tilted my head back against her vibrant breasts rubbing my head like she was giving me a blow job. She had been to India she told me. Great weed there babe. I felt like grabbing her ass but after all it was only a hair cut. The next day I looked around for a book by Roger Housedon called Sacred travel through India. I couldn’t find it anywhere and I ended up in Fitzroy staring at a book called the alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It’s all about destiny and as I sat engrossed in this little fable I put the book face down in my lap one stop before the tram turned into Fitzroy Street. A man got on and sat next to me. I was about to get up when he saw my book , he was holding a book , he turned it over and smiled , ‘destiny’, yeah I mumbled I gotta get off . I bought a few beers and got drunk in my room . The Coffee Palace wasn’t much better than turd central but it was cheap and I could always go back for another haircut before I left for samosa land.