The Waiting Rooms of History

Do you remember, Kolkata
That green passport, my dark green shirt;
Arriving, drenched, at Sealdah Main
That day on the train from the border
I saw a shoeshine boy for the first time in my life.
It was a thrill, my dream city,
My first tram-car, my earliest first-class,

Rootlessness – a few drifting thoughts

A couple of weeks back, my parents had come to spend a fortnight with me*. After they arrived, my father asked for something from me. He wanted to get a colour printout of a particular area of Bangladesh from  Wikimapia or any other site that provides detailed political maps of any country. He said he was very troubled after hearing from somebody that the small town in Bangladesh, where he had spent his childhood, had been washed away by flood, more after the devastating attack of Sidr, the mini Tsunami which hit Bangladesh last month. He said he was losing his memory gradually, and didn’t want to forget his utopia of childhood, and as a last resort, wanted to get a coloured printout of the area in the map – which I knew, would in no way compensate for or stand up to the verdant memories of childhood.