As I stand next to this glass window of my room on the eighteenth floor of a big hotel in Delhi, another day begins in the city. The colour of twilight paints the city with hope and aspiration of the thousands living in it.

The vast expanse of the city lying in front is overwhelming. I wonder that each dimming twinkle of light that appears in front of me must be having its own story. As my eyes get used to the hues of sunrise, I can recognize my city better, the Connaught Place, the semblance of the railway station,  the sodium lamps on the forested ridge and the slow moving traffic on the wide roads of Lutyens Delhi.

Nostalgia sets in.

With a sea of emotions within, I sit next to the window and take a few moments to spend with my city. I have never felt so close to this city as I do now. I never felt as related as I feel now. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize that this city has been around for more than a 1000 years and yet it continues to witness the lives of so many in a way that changes every day. One of those is mine.

My childhood and my teens seem to be strewn all over this place. I can see it all; as if it’s running like a motion picture in front of me as my city gives it back to me.

The earliest of my memories stir up distant images of clean and broad roads, white and lime buses, black and yellow taxis and the warm natured people. However, they remain distant and hazy as by the time I grew up, some of these could only be found in memories.

Yet, I do remember.

 I remember the visits to historic monuments like the Red Fort, Qutub Minar, Humayun’s Tomb and many more, and how each would mesmerize me with its magnificence and grandeur.  The stories around each one of these monuments would take me to a distant world of kings and queens, of wars and pillages, of treasures and mysteries.  Being in Delhi, history was not just a textbook subject but of experiential learning as well.

I remember the excitement of the festivals we celebrated, which for long has been common irrespective of the part of the country we belong to or the religion we follow. From the fire of Lohri to the colours of Holi, from the excitement of Janamastami to the splendour of Diwali, from the delicacies of Id to the delight of Dussera and Teej, we enjoyed and experienced all.  I remember the vibrations of that rickety auto that took us to Jama maszid to buy crackers during Diwali and the pain of that water balloon that hit me on Holi while racing to escape the colours that my friends wanted to adorn me with. I remember the anticipation of Durga Puja, which as for all Bengalis was an annual extravaganza with the crazy pandal hopping, the mindless banter with friends and the mouth-watering food. We lived our lives from event to event and festivals were much more than just events. When I look back and see those festivities, I realize that I and many more like me were blessed to be able to know so much about the different cultures that co-existed and experience them as well. Somewhere within those celebrations lie the roots of our cultural broadmindedness and ability to accommodate diversity.

I remember my middle class neighbourhood, where every winter afternoon the elderly would step out in the sun with their charpai and mollycoddle the kids around. I remember the camaraderie that we would have on our streets every night, when people would step out for their post dinner strolls. Those were the days when we knew even the person who came selling vegetables at our doorstep. Life was surely not as busy and we got a lot of time talking to each other even across the boundary wall. The concept of a park was still in its bloom and part of our daily routine as well. I can attribute my love and respect for greenery and trees to those parks that we played in. Power cuts, though frequent were not as painful as they are now. I still miss those hide and seek games we used to play when we had power cuts plunging the whole locality into darkness. I remember the cuddling up with cousins when one of the uncles would come by and tell horror stories during these dark spells. I remember the excitement of the visits to the railway station, every time our cousins visited us. I cherish the anticipation that the station brought in us, of good times that lay ahead.

This is all that has made me what I am. This is what I am. However, I wonder, where have these things disappeared. They remain as treasures in our closet and yet they leave us thinking every time they are out in the open.

That was then and time moved on. Festivals have lost their charm, they still are big events in the calendar but we don’t seem to be as excited as we used to be. Neighbourhoods still exist, but in metal and concrete, the bonhomie seems to have trailed. History lies where it was, but we don’t have the inclination to revisit it. As the years go by, these memories become more like a masterpiece that gathers dust on one of the walls in our new homes. Life moves on pass them, acknowledging their presence but merely stopping to appreciate.

The city has morphed into a new form, something which these time calls for and I am happy that my city still remains alive creating new memories each day. As the day progresses, I know I will get back to my life and its rigmarole but, as I look at the expanse of this city, I have a strong feeling of belonging here. My city is as much a part of me as I am a part of it.

It’s my own and I yearn to grow again with this city and create new memoirs so that next time when I stand near such a window looking out, I have a new story to tell.