Everything is quiet. Dead still. Somewhere not very far, crickets break into their song. Somewhere, a cycle rickshaw’s horn brings back a deluge of memories.
This isn’t really nostalgia. I don’t really miss people from my life because they are still there. Perhaps I miss the interactions. The interactions have changed over time.
Time teaches us to grow up and be more practical.
People move cities.
They make new friends. Other people enter their lives. They are happy. I can’t say I’m sad either. Other people have entered into my life as well, both real and virtual. I value them both.
I can’t say I think of the past all the time. I can’t say I terribly miss them. I really don’t.
But, sometimes, on a quiet evening when crickets sing, or the familiar smell of burning cow dung hits the nose, or when the cycle rickshaw puller sounds his horn, it brings back a lot.
I miss home.
What have I achieved in life, when the most pleasant experiences are missing?
How is someone supposed to live after being uprooted from the past?
Sometimes, this city life really tires me. The vehicles, the noise, the crowds. I’m making money. I’m happy. I’m really happy.
But I miss home. This city is not home. It’ll never be. Never.
I shall move on to a larger city in near future.
More money. More noise. More smoke. But I shall never have home again. Perhaps, this is not just my story.
This is the story of millions of city-refugees who, like me, search for their roots in the sudden song of crickets.
Perhaps this is your story, too.