The address of my childhood

Smelt of dust.

As the Calcutta of the nineties whizzed by,

It left its mark on our bulky sofa sets,

The acquired knick-knacks called 'showpieces'

And the mustard oil soaked skin

Of my five-year-old self.

The address of my childhood smelt of bougainvillea;

The papery purple devoid of any fragrance.

But I still believed otherwise

As I tucked them safe between my '50 Favourite Fairy Tales'.

The address of my childhood smelt of sunlight

Seeping in through ventilators where sparrows resided

Coming out from time to time

To disturb the semblance of the whirring ceiling fans

Working hard to dissipate the humid Calcutta noon.

The address of my childhood

Smelt of Thakuma's pujo paraphernalia

The subtle dominance of the incense and the dhuno

Overwhelming the household

And the smell of my mother's talcum powder,

Calamine lotion and laughter.

The address of my childhood

Smelt of Baba's laboured ambition.

We had to move on.

The smell of desolation

Now mixed with the dust

We did not bother with anymore.