- Simon and Garfunkel tracks on. Check.
- Buying Bengali sweets from the Indian store. Check.
- Ghore ferar gaan on loop. Check.
17 days. Internship ends. NYC. Delhi. Calcutta.
It will not be the August of 2014 that I return to. It's the baked pavements of a 2009 summer, blues riffs on guitars by the gutter in the backdrop. Green benches and back-gates. Or late nights near 8B, 2010 maybe. Football in a village field, muddy rules and clear souls. Whiff of "bep"-rolls and the trundle of trams. "Meet me in front of Music World." Before the place got shut down. After-parties and their aftermaths on sun-warmed terraces. Snatches of technicolour in a monochrome past
Home. To listen for the echoes of voices long gone elsewhere. To try and replay those rained off Test matches once more.
Home. Of cooked food. And breakfast in bed. Tea, just right. La familia. Old friends and new tales. And of course, "ekta dishi phone hobe?"
Even though I am visiting somewhere called Home, it's the somewhen that will always tear my eyes into the final gloaming of a westering sun, over the tangle of antennae and jumble of rooftops.