Sunday, 12 August 2018

Sometimes when I am home, I feel that Calcutta is like an old Hindi song, humming to the same tune each time renditioned by new artists. I cannot claim ownership to the city in ways I did when I lived. I ask friends about good places to go to, but if left to my own choice, I pick the loneliest and the shabbiest corners because they have remained inspite of the speed of time and erasure. Much like the old tunes in new recordings.

Is this how we feel of home? In the tunes of the old artists but always as an ode, never an original anymore, always evoking the feeling of pathos and love at the same time, of eternal and yet fleeting companionship which survives in the heart more than the realities of life, the constant feeling of loss and vehement belonging, together, tearing and healing. Never there, but always clutching to your being like the unease in your throat. Home, a city, people, a person, a few streets, some memories, a house... never there, and yet, always.