Observations (Part 1)

Photo by spirenas: Street of Calcutta

My teeth chattered rhythmically as the rickety old cycle-rickshaw snaked and shuddered through the narrow lane. Nothing had changed. The trees were still standing tall. The huge ponds still had enough water for young children to splash across. The scenes passed by me in slow motion and I didn’t realise that the rickshaw had slowed down in front of a big black iron gate. “My home,” I muttered to myself.
The rickshaw puller waited, as I put my bag on the ground and patted my pockets for my wallet. “How much is it,” I asked. He stood quietly, wiping the sweat off his temple with a dirty yellow ‘gamcha’. Then as if shy to ask, he looked the other way and mumbled: “Char taka.” (Four rupees) I settled it at ten and hurt, waited for ‘ma’ to open the door.
It was nice to be back.
Well, that was then. Lately, I suddenly realised how far I have come. The connection with my past is just a series of black and white photographs in my head. Sometimes, when I am alone on my balcony, smoking — thoughts of Calcutta come gushing back like a flash flood.