An unusual attachment

The loss seems unbearable. What-ifs and why-didn't-yous hurt my head and while I can't believe my stupidity, I berate myself for my carelessness.

I've lost my hat. The hat that was lovingly bought for me while I was lying in a sweaty delirium in a budget hotel in Salta, Argentina. The hat that provided shade from the sun in the Galapagos and protection against the rain in Perito Moreno.

The one that was big enough to be pulled over the eyes in order not to see the insistent Excuse-me-ma'am touts in Delhi. The one with the string that kept it from blowing off on the windy Beagle Channel.

That ugly hat that I could hold on to for support while labouring up Dead Woman's Pass on the Inca Trail, and hide under while being subjected to endless discussions on Aussie Rules football.

In short, the hat with which I spent nine months on the road. Gone in one careless moment of excitement while the Waggah border gate between India and Pakistan reached its demonstrative daily closing. Lost in the melee of colourful saris, six-foot soldiers with large moustaches and laughing men. Fallen, unseen, from an unguarded lap.

An irrational attachment leads to a disproportionate sense of loss and I desperately hope that Hat has found a good Indian head.

The cycle of life
Hat II (for schoolboy cricketers) is acquired for Rps70 in Amritsar but hardly cuts the muster in essential hat qualities but necessity breeds affinity - until the cycle of hat lives is completed.

On the shores of the holy Lake Namtso in Tibet, as the first snow of the season starts to fall, I come across someone else's Lost Hat, which becomes my Found Hat.

It feels just and right and I am content.