In the larger scheme of things, she is somewhere out there, but she is irretrievably lost to me forever, like a child lost on her way home.
It’s interesting the kind of threadbare things we hang on to: old sweaters and T-shirts are the most comfortable, as are the homes of our childhood, no matter how spare or cluttered.
Now, as other things have fallen into place, grief knocks at my door, like a sullen visitor, who wants to come in, take a seat in my hearth and share its tale with me.
Funny how the smallest things are the ones you tend to miss the most.
Can one be a nomad without leaving home? I would say yes, you probably can.
And just like I carry a bit of my parents within me, I also carry a bit of Calcutta within me. It’s soul knows mine even though I tried to escape from it. It will always remain my home, a place to come back to, no questions asked.
The Calcutta of her memories was now restricted to the confines of her mind and existed nowhere.