“Was this always there?”
Variations of this circle my mind, as I walk Calcutta every time.
These weren’t here, when I was growing up, living here, walking here, being here.
A child, a girl, a young woman. An “almost”.
When this was my city. There were other things though, which have been replaced, gone, things I can’t quite place my finger on. Memories with my mother, my dogs, my best friend, my other best friend, my boyfriend, my next boyfriend.
The streets, restaurants, shops, the walls of my grandparents’ home.
Dear world, where is my home? And what did you do to it?
The thing is my hometown grew up faster than I did.
When we travel to look for childhood, we usually return empty-handed.
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