My journey

My trek here was uneventful, with perhaps the only highlight being a brief and unexpected sighting of George Abbey (former Center Director of the Johnson Space Center) at the Houston airport. A few of you will be excited to hear that the extrovert in me blossomed enough to befriend two strangers throughout my journey, which provided a brief rupture from the usual monotony that accompanies solo-traveling. I should note here that I was duly surprised at the number of foreigners traveling to the City of Joy; though I suspect with its rich culture and historical significance, the city does have a lot to offer its tourists.

Having arrived in Kolkata, I waited for my baggage and wondered, with some apprehension I must confess, about the impending duration of my travels in my motherland. My previous trip was plagued with jet-lag fueled slumber, unimaginable heat, and unwanted boredom, and so I did not know quite what to expect at present. Thankfully, all fears concerning the weather were allayed as I stepped outside and was greeted by a breeze I interpreted as pleasant.

En route to my temporary home at a quarter to two in the morning, I noted the absolute stillness present in the night. The bustling city was at rest, its lights and sounds at a bare minimum, presenting a contrast undoubtedly unseen by even many of its inhabitants. The cool breeze snuck in through the partially open driver's window, and I welcomed it in the midst of the stuffiness that comes with five people in a car with no internal cooling system.

The familiar signs of impending slumber signaled to me that perhaps I would not be plagued with the same jet-lag I experienced during my previous visit. We arrived soon at the home I've known for the better portion of my 23 years. The three-story abode, with its pale yellow exterior and pistachio green metal bars, welcomed me still after so many years. The speckled red marble felt cool to the touch, even through socks, as I parted ways with my shoes on the veranda. Tiny drops of precipitation caused the short walk from the taxi to the door to be colder than I'd expected, though in hindsight I believe the majority of the chill could have been attributed to the nearby open bodies of water. As I stepped through the doorstep, the memories of years past came vividly back: memories of reading on the veranda on hot summer days, memories of my brother's childhood fall on the steps, memories of what I later knew to be the last time I would see my grandfather in this house. Being on the move for a fair portion of my life, I doubt I've ever known the value of memories in a home as I do here. Even now, as I sit here with my pen furiously scribbling on paper, years after his death, I faintly catch the aroma of my grandfather's snuff, a wisp of a sentiment that causes me to pause and smile. The air I breathe here has no distinct aroma to anyone else, but to me, its fragrance brings with it all the reflections of my childhood. With this in mind, I happily unpacked my belongings that night and prepared for bed.