When the soul of a place is sacrificed
VISITING Kolkata after more than a decade was like flipping through a sepia-tinted photo album, only to find some pages smudged, torn or missing altogether. The city, with all its unrelenting chaos and ineffable charm, greeted me as it always did — with warmth, noise and nostalgia. But it was my trip to the old suburb where my mausi’s mansion once stood that stirred a deeper, aching kind of emotion — one of loss and quiet mourning. Now that she’s no longer with us, the memories of the past weigh heavier on my heart.
Back in my school and college days, when I would visit this suburb from Delhi for a month during the summer vacation, it felt like a tranquil retreat on the outskirts of the teeming city. Mausi’s home was a grand, timeworn mansion with sprawling verandas and tall, moss-covered walls. But what truly defined the place was the water bodies nearby — two serene ponds and a narrow canal that meandered through patches of wild grass. In the afternoons, after finishing my lunch, I would often sit by the water, sketching dragonflies or simply staring into the ripple-kissed surface as the sun dipped behind tall coconut palms. It was a haven from academic pressures and the stormy riddles of youth.
This place cradles some of the dearest memories of my youth — my aunt’s son and I getting drenched during the monsoon, fishing in the pond and playing football beside the smaller pond. We spoke of dreams and fears in that open, forgiving space — imagining far-off futures, unaware that the place itself would one day become unrecognisable.
Today, as I walked the same paths, my footsteps felt heavy, disconnected. The ponds are gone — filled in with sand and rubble. What once shimmered with reflected moonlight and the laughter of children is now occupied by multi-storeyed buildings and boundary walls. Concrete has claimed what water once cradled. The breeze that once carried the scent of wet earth and blooming shiuli flowers now bears dust and the mechanical hum of construction. Even mausi’s house has given way to a nondescript block of flats, its story reduced to a faint whisper among the newness.
It’s not that I begrudge progress. Cities must expand, people must create and spaces must evolve. But the price feels steep when the soul of a place is sacrificed for its skeleton. This suburb was once a pocket of serenity, where nature and memory lived side by side. Now, it resembles just another pin on the urban map.
As I stood by what was once the larger pond, now a parking lot, I closed my eyes and let the past rush in. I could still hear the rustle of leaves, the splash of a diving kingfisher and the distant call of my aunt urging me in for lunch. That world may be lost, but in memory, it survives — untouched, uncorrupted and utterly mine.
Musings