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Published:  12:01 AM, 14 November 2017

Passage to me

A whirlwind trip it was. First to India. Bombay. Land of rickety "volvo" buses, rustic rest stops, deep fried samosas, and high inducing too-strong chai.

"Bisleri or Sada pani, Maam?"
There is a different rhythm to the city as buses, cows, chickens, cars, and people run or walk or sit and tell the stories of their lives, all at once. Dark heads, glowing faces, musky air, women on bikes--sorry, motorcycles--people singing, drinking, living, breathing and dying on the streets, behind those brilliant magenta curtains in that alleyway, there, here, everywhere. The land of Big B, the glitz and glam of Bollywood, "Pyaar ka Signal" on the radio and under that yellow awning, Scotch, Wine and Whiskey at every corner while children sell stale popcorn and marigolds on the streets.

And then it was the delicate shade of the jasmine trees and the towering magnificence of banana groves that nestled among them a sweet little bunglow that had, overnight, come alive; eyes watered with lack of sleep as fingers fumbled and blistered in awe and submission to Raag Jhinjhoti. "Will we ever make it, tell me."

In Dhaka I grew. Literally at first, until I had to sadly, marginally, control my sweet consumption. Soaked up a lot of history, food, love and pollution which gave me a sore throat the first week. (excerpt)

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