The dim-lit, secluded street just a few steps away from my house has the night grown upon it. While an odd shadow peeps into its enviable quietude and as I imagine it's dimensions, my wrist-watch starts running anti-clockwise, and I get reminded of the places that this street leads to, of the places that sing and dance, smile and cry, of the places that are dark and bright, wet and dry, loquacious and laconic, and of those that confess and lie.
My first crush, first badminton match, first attempt of cycling,first Kishore song, first book,first shopping, first plan, first friend, first look at the sky, first movie, first heartbreak, first success, first failure and the first question of existence converge at the end of this street which has enveloped a disorganised stack of the tiny aspects of my life that are now scattered over the immensity of time, and that collectively define all that I have lost and all that I have gained in the process of growing up to 22.
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