Samraggi Mukherjee

I woke up overlooking the city, basking in the sun's warm embrace and the blue skies covered with snow-white clouds, scattered throughout, like wet cotton balls. The sunlight shedding on the marble floor through the window wished me a good morning; the slight nip in the breeze that blew across my room - a smell so familiar - reminded me of a not-so-distant past. I checked my phone and smiled a little. It's October. The onset of Autumn has, perhaps, always stirred the inherent nostalgia. I grew up in a house with mosaic floors and in a city with old buildings made of red bricks that smelled of love and revolution, where October meant festival spilling out. My city is dolled up like a bride during October. Canopies of lights in lanes and streets, even the ones unnamed, make it look like it's aging backward. The rich odor of Shuili ushers in the forecast of a new beginning, and the sound of the camaraderie echoes every nook and corner.

One such bustling part of the city that I made frequent trips to during this time of the year is an old red-bricked structure. Resembling a British architectonic, a wholesale market, called Hogg's Market or, now in local parlance, the whole area referred to as New Market. The trips to New Market were never made alone.

While some trips meant therapeutic street shopping with a school friend, some trips were all about aimlessly roaming in and around the market with cousins - only to pick up mutton seekh kebab rolls from Nizam. It reminded me of how a customary family outing would take place every year; how it wouldn't be complete without Baba taking a detour to a 115-year-old Jewish Bakery called Nahoum's to buy sweet buns and brownies.

October meant struggling to wake up at 4 am to tune into the radio. A zeal drives people during this time; the sheer enthusiasm of planning five days for over a month seems what keeps people in my city alive till October. When I was in school, we would walk through the lanes of Dover Lane gazing and dazed by the lights that hung over and stop by every phuchkawala on the way. The streets around Sarobar Lake have witnessed a lot of firsts, drunken monologues, stolen glances, and missed chances.

I have come to realize that people define places more than the places define them. I left my city with a heavy heart and bitter feeling, hoping and wishing never to come back; however, there reigns a particular dichotomy in everything we do, and affection isn't any different. It's October. I miss home.