Would be a stretch to call it visiting roots. It has not been twenty-five, but three years since I have visited India. So by any means, to visit roots is a strong term. But the sheer amount of days and hours that have passed by in a jiffy, long days and short years, to go back was almost visiting a place I haven’t been. Attribute it to the fast-changing things back there or attribute to me being away, or both, the experience was nothing short of foreign but to know that I had my childhood in that street, the stone that I hurt my knee with - grade 2, those rusted gates that creek the same, the same neighbours, the same wet-bench housing flowers overlooked by the same lady, the photo-copy shop I had infinite copies taken of infinite reference materials during education, all the same, except aged into something that seems foreign yet same. Infinite colours and an ice-cold splash to the senses that slap to wake you up.
What did I miss out on?
…tbc…