in my room, at our house here in Kolkata. They allow me to get locked out enough to be cut out from the rest of the house and still stay conveniently sheltered from the raging unfamiliarity that most of the city has been shoving at my face ever since I came back. It gets a little more stark with every moment i spend here, every second beyond the stretch of time i was to be allowed originally.
There is this person i might have spoken of once, here on the blog. Dadu, an aged neighbour person who loves me and mom and is concerned about us beyond comprehension.In the way old folks often get so attached to random people that it is sort of disconcerting. When he saw me first after i returned, he broke into tears because i had tanned, i couldn't retain my colour nor the supposed 'jella' that my face, or whatever, was once home to. He pitied me. He said i shouldn't go back, i should stay home- that's what's best for me.
Fact is, now no matter which city im in, I somehow only ever find myself somewhere that gives me the feel of being in those hanging box windows, this weirdass, confined territory I've got all for myself.Some place that can never be home but wont even allow me to put myself out there.
Talk about the washerman's bitch.