Somewhere, still.

Somewhere in the bylanes I've forgotten. The smell of my newly painted almirah. The feeling of space it brought with it, three keys to a safe nobody else had access to, a shelf each for all my belongings, the first piece of property I would own. The sunlight as it trickles through the leaves and branches on a lazy sunday afternoon in winter. And my cycle. And those cantt streets of Allahabad. And of Asansol. The smell of leaves burning. Autumn. Real Autumn. Real rain. Real spring. With grass you can walk on, flowers you can pluck and dragon flies you can wear as badges. Fire-flies. The first time I let go of my hands riding my cycle, riding my cycle back from school. And I closed my eyes. And I'm pretty sure I smiled. A real smile. The first time I saw that white 800 standing in my driveway. The way those seats felt. Playing music on my 2-in-1. Rewinding. P&Ts. The first time I spoke to a girl on the phone. And the time when it lasted an hour. And the time it lasted the whole night. Looking up when it rains. Walking around the bend, renting comics, getting my cycle pumped. That little chowk in civil lines. Pulling a dare there. Riding pillion on scooters. Crossing the railway track. Tying my shoe-laces without messing it up. Running bare foot. Finally being able to read the time. Still not being able to tell left from right. Getting lost in the bylanes. Forgetting that I'm lost.