The street outside my late grandfather’s home in Dumdum, slowly filling up. This is how the rainy days of my childhood still return to me in dreams. The smell of garam chai and onion pakodas in the air. A book in hand. Petrichor.

The sound of the falling raindrops accentuated by the sounds of my family discussing where the great state of West Bengal went wrong. No phone or laptop stole them away from their discussion reminiscing the past.

Coffee houses full of literary brilliance, an exchange of ideas, the poems of Tagore, the songs of R.D. Burman. A simpler time.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to that. A rainy evening with family, at our Dumdum home. No worries, just laughter and stories.