I often miss Shimla, where I spent some of the happiest periods of my childhood, most of them with my favourite cousins or my dad. Guildford smells like Shimla sometimes, bringing those memories back. Ambleside always smells like Shimla, perhaps why I like it so much.
I sometimes miss Joka, the place, some of the people, some sweet smiles, many regrets. Lakes, bridges, Calcutta and the rest.
I miss Goa. The easy escape, the careless freedom, the sea and the breeze.
I occasionally miss my Punjabi tabbar with all our eccentricities.
But the place I miss the most, that I itch to go back to every so often, is Bombay. I miss my Bombay. A hell, fucking, LOT.
It’s not my Bombay anymore. I’ve changed, and it must’ve changed. Yet I miss it like crazy and itch to be there. The unreachable itch.
Fuck.
It’s currently my favourite season in Bombay; the season that all locals there hate: monsoon. After growing up in dry, dusty northern plains, those monsoons were an addictive delight for me. We even used to love going to Goa in monsoons!
10 years later, sitting here in my bedroom in Guildford (under a light duvet in late July!), I can still smell those monsoon rains. Those lovely Bombay monsoon rains 😘