A Tapestry of Lost Times
Today is Poila Boishakh, the first day of the Bengali New Year, and I find myself wrapped in a quiet nostalgia, sifting through memories like old photographs scattered across a table. The air feels heavy with the past, pulling me back to places and moments I can no longer touch, no matter how much time or money I might offer. These are fragments of my life—some etched in the streets of my childhood, others in far-flung corners of the world—that live now only in the hard disk of my memory, flickering like dreams I revisit when the world grows still.
I grew up in the heart of New Delhi, in the now-vanished worlds of Chummery and Wilson Square in Gole Market. Those buildings, with their creaky wooden floors and sunlit courtyards, were the backdrop of my earliest years. I can still hear the laughter of my brothers echoing in the verandahs, feel the cool marble under my feet on summer afternoons. But they’re gone, razed to make way for something new, something I don’t recognize. Sometimes, in the hush of night, I walk those corridors again in my dreams, piecing together moments—a game of marbles, my mother's voice calling me for lunch. Memory is my only bridge to those lost places.
Death, too, has claimed its share. My grandparents, parents, uncles, friends—so many faces that once filled my world with warmth are now only photographs and stories. It’s the natural order, I know, but it doesn’t soften the ache of their absence. I carry them in my heart, their voices a faint hum beneath the noise of today.
Delhi in the 1960s was a different city, slower, softer. I remember piling onto trams* in Chandni Chowk, the clatter of wheels on tracks mingling with the chatter of vendors and the scent of roasting corn. We’d sway along, wide-eyed, as the city unfolded outside the open windows. Or we’d hop onto a tonga* or a phutphut, the clip-clop of hooves or the sputter of an engine carrying us through narrow lanes. Those trams are long gone, the tongas replaced by honking cars. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I’m there again, a boy clutching a sticky toffee, watching the world go by.
Later, my career took me to company quarters and bungalows across India—solid, unchanging structures that, thankfully, still stand. I can visit them, walk their gardens, and trace the outlines of old routines. But other experiences, no matter how vivid, are locked in time, beyond my reach.
One memory stands out, bright and bittersweet. I found a photo in my cloud album from the Currumbin Sanctuary* on Australia’s Gold Coast. There I am, grinning, parrots perched on my head and arms, their feathers a riot of color as I held a feeding bowl. The air was alive with their chatter, a wild, joyful chaos. That was years ago. Now, housing developments have crept close to the sanctuary, and the birds no longer flock as they once did. I could return, but that fleeting magic—parrots trusting me enough to land on my shoulders—wouldn’t. The world has shifted, and so has the experience.
Then there’s Germany, 2002. The managing director of a company I was visiting promised me something extraordinary, and he delivered. He drove me to a 31.5-kilometer experimental Maglev* track near Lathen in Lower Saxony. I’ll never forget the thrill of boarding that magnetic levitation train, sleek and futuristic, as it accelerated to a breathtaking 500 km/h. The world outside blurred into streaks of green and gray, and I felt like I was riding the edge of tomorrow. But that track closed after a tragic accident in 2011. Even if I went back, the hum of that train, the pulse of possibility, is gone forever.
Closer to home, I think of Qutub Minar*. As schoolboys, we’d race up its spiral staircase, counting steps, laughing until we reached the top, Delhi sprawling below like a map we could conquer. That stopped in 1981, after a power failure led to a stampede that claimed 45 lives, mostly children. The tower still stands, but its heights are sealed to visitors. I can circle its base, but I’ll never again feel the wind on my face at its summit, never shout into the sky with the reckless joy of youth.
Even earlier, in my kindergarten days in Allahabad, there was the Ekka—a horse-drawn cart that carried us to Annie Besant School. The rhythmic creak of the wheels, the gentle sway, the dusty roads lined with neem trees—it’s a world that no longer exists. Cars have replaced Ekkas, and Allahabad itself feels like a different place now.
Writing this, I’m time-traveling, hopping between decades and continents, each memory a thread in a tapestry I can’t quite hold. Poila Boishakh is a day for new beginnings, but today, I’m lingering in the past, savoring what was. These places, these moments—they shaped me, even if I can’t return to them. They live in the stories I tell myself, in the quiet corners of my mind where nostalgia reigns. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe memory, imperfect as it is, is its own kind of home.
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**Footnotes**
- *Tram in Delhi*: Electric trams operated in Delhi from 1908 to 1963, connecting areas like Chandni Chowk, Red Fort, and Jama Masjid. They were a cheap, popular mode of transport, but rising costs and competition from buses led to their closure. Today, only photographs and memories remain of this iconic system.
- *Tonga in Delhi*: Horse-drawn tongas were a common sight in Delhi until the late 20th century, especially in Old Delhi’s bustling streets. They’ve largely vanished, replaced by motorized transport, though a few still operate for tourists in certain areas.
- *Currumbin Sanctuary*: Located on Queensland’s Gold Coast, Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary was famous for its lorikeet feeding sessions, where wild rainbow lorikeets would flock to visitors. Urban development nearby has reduced bird numbers, altering the once-vibrant experience.
- *Maglev Experiment*: The Transrapid Maglev track near Lathen, Germany, was a test facility for high-speed magnetic levitation trains, reaching speeds up to 500 km/h. A 2006 collision killed 23 people, and the track closed in 2011. The site was later dismantled.
- *Qutub Minar*: This 12th-century minaret in Delhi was open to the public until 1981, when a power failure caused a stampede inside its narrow staircase, killing 45, mostly schoolchildren. Access to the upper levels has been restricted ever since for safety reasons.
