As I walked through the park it was hard not to notice the slight chill. I was dressed up warmly, but not everyone was prepared for this sudden change in weather. I smiled seeing young couples in a state of perpetual hug to keep out the wind and loners walking faster than usual to be engulfed in warmth. For me, the chill manifested itself in a much different way. Each time the cold air brushed my face it transported me across the seas to my home and all that, that would be happening in India at this time of the year. For the umpteenth time I reminded myself that this was not the time to dwell on the past - I must get back home and write, before Adila's story escapes me. Rather, before the rawness of the emotions cooked themselves into just another statistics. A parent reminding a child of the unfinished homework that needs to be done before play.

At home, I quickly prepared a cup of steaming chai, with lots and lots of adrak and a teaspoon loaded with sugar - just the way I liked it. All those years, outside India had not managed to rub off this habit - rather magnified it into an addiction. I smiled as the words "pure desi" hit me - a term my friends used to tease me whenever I told them that no matter what, I would not return to India, atleast not to live there permanently. It was there way of letting me know that no matter how much I was in love with the peace and quiet of this faraway land my heart was still Indian and someday I was bound to get back (probably in old age) and regret the time spent away from Matrabhumi.

Grabbing a box of cookies I started working on the first draft of Adila's story. How her mom, a Hindu by birth married a Muslim against the wishes of her family. A sip of tea and a bite of the cookie.How despite all the opposition from their respective families they lived blissfully in a small village by the sea in Bengal (now Bangladesh). Another greedy sip and a bigger chunk of cookie, all full of dark brown chocolate. How food was in plenty and despite being poor they managed to be happy, just like they do in fairy tales. My hands reach out to another cookie and my mouth for another sip of tea. How they celebrated Diwali and Eid with equal enthusiasm and.....

And then it strikes me again - but this time with a full force. Memories. Nostalgia. All of a sudden the cookie loses it taste and my ears strain to hear the sound of some faraway, non existent drums - the drums that announce that the Goddess is going for "Visarjan". Of course no sounds are forthcoming. I can feel my nose twitching at the imagined smell of smoke from the holy fire. As if in a daze, I walk to the balcony door and open it, just a wee bit. The cold air strikes immediately but along with it, it brings in the smell of falling leaves, of the retreating sun, of the wind that has lowered its intensity but not what I long to hear, long to feel, long to smell.

Flashback. You can sense the change in the air even without looking outside. As the weather tries to beat out the hard Indian summer in the plains, the coolness creeps in slowly. Initially it leaves just the tip of the fingers a bit cold. The next day you realise that the street lights have come up at an early hour. Still the next evening, you see and smell a neighbour's house being painted all anew. Still another, the sounds of excited children running ahead of their parents to buy sweetmeats. The sound of drums, the smell of the holy fire mingled with that of puri- aaloo- tamatar being cooked for feeding the kanjak, the sight of women draped in all finery heading to the pandal - this was all that my heart desired at the moment. The arrival of the winter seemed incomplete without them.

And yet, silence all around - even as the drums and the crackers do a somersault in my head along with samosa, dahibada and rasgulla. The uncrowded silence I so lovingly cherish about this place suddenly loses its flavour and I want to be back to India amidst all the humdrum and colour of life. Amongst all that traffic sound that even past 10 PM held the capacity to get onto my nerves. Lost in a mirage of thoughts I feel this need to talk to someone. Its a late hour in India and not the best time to call. I call my husband but he is busy. By now, the roar of silence around me is defending - as if making fun of me - "this is what you came here for?". My heart answers, "Well yes, that was one of the reasons - but not any more". To turn off those thoughts I decide to turn on some music. Youtube - I type in the first song that my fingers dictate -"Ye jo des hai tera". Rather than taking away my thoughts, the song pushes me deeper into them. I feel my toes twitching when SRK steps into cold water. I feel his agony when he looks at the photos pinned by his desk. I feel....a thousand things...but all in all just one emotion, that's so new to me.....

Nostalgia. Memories. Smells. Colours. Sights. Sound. Tastes. I miss India.