I was born in Dhaka, quite a few years ago, on this day today.

Ten years ago, I left Dhaka on a crisp day of August, without realizing I will never come back as the old me. I had no closure, I never said goodbye, and I never even thought about it. I just left. Because I had to, because I wanted to and because leaving was always on the list. In all the chaos that comes with migrating to another continent, I forgot that hurt, identity crisis, and abandoned relationships are also a part of it, but I am not writing about that today. I am writing about the city– a city that I loved like a living, breathing being.

It’s been 10 years and yet, on some nights, I can almost smell the wet soil after a rainy day. On a bright, sunny winter morning, when I sip my hot cup of coffee, I can almost feel the scorching heat of a Boishakh day. When fall comes and it looks like nature is hosting a carnival of colours, I discreetly search for the bright red of Krishnochura.  But Dhaka and I were not meant to be. I grew up thinking that my heart belongs to Dhaka and I was wrong. I desired more, I desired something different and when I returned, of course, I couldn’t recognize it anymore. I was a stranger in my city. It was too loud, too bright, suffocating and it seemed pretentious; just too much for me to handle. Something in me had shifted. I became an alien in a city that was once my own. I guess we were just not meant to be.

So now, I think of Dhaka as a good, old friend; like a distant memory.  It’s not a tragedy, nor a comedy, just a simple, classic, incomplete love story. With all its colours, smells and sounds, Dhaka is my greatest love story, an unfulfilled one, but the greatest nevertheless.

Day 01: March 07, 2019