In this personal essay, Gopal Lahiri takes a walk down the memory lane as he recreates his city through his memories.
Yes. It has begun from here. I can remember vividly. The city turns grey day by day. The landscape of the city is now an index. There is no denying that crumbling walls are an eyesore. How can I express my attachments to the city through the people who live in it? The milk van still drums in the early morning. The first tram takes you to the river bank. The road forks off into two and is still covered with gravel.
Here is a road in the morning fog. Here is a road in noonday glare. Then suddenly the streets are damp, washed and combed under the street lights, the city is clamped by the rain, the rows of mango trees stand tall, with its fruits that hang low. The city grows on me.