.a written note.

You know the lane by heart, because you carried it everywhere you went. The cracks on the wall, the colour of the powder when you grated bricks for fun, the smell of summer evenings and the sound of quiet afternoons because children were supposed to sleep till 4 o’clock. Along those lines live the directions the kids gave to the autowallas on the way back home back home, back home. Where the trees are intact albeit not ageless, you’ve carried with yourself the smell of water splashed on mud and cement. The sound of children of the house cheering, playing hide and seek till 8 o’clock. I want to write more, about the hours occupied in laughter, conversations and more of them, about the hungry lunch times and a relaxing ritual of tea-making or brewing great-grandmother’s coffee. about the annual ritual of going through wheat grains, rice and lentils. I want to write more, but how can one define the colour of nostalgia?