Oh, the homecoming! Everything smells the same, feels the same, and perhaps looks almost the same—a rare occurrence, but possible. The man-made structures appear to be smaller. Decades ago, my body was more petite, so the shapes seemed more pronounced. Above all, my outlook has changed. I have a distinctive perspective on many things, and this realization makes me tickled. Since I’ve changed in so many ways, the contrast between my past and current self is even more amplified when I reflect on old, faded memories. It’s interesting how memories lose their vividness over time without us even noticing.
Still, this city I once called home. It has grown to accommodate hundreds of thousands of new residents and their diverse needs. Always do. It’s an ever-growing conversation: how much are we willing to pay for our objects of desire? The process took away the city’s soul and how I knew her. That’s the price we pay. Often, we agree to the negotiations without considering the consequences. I reluctantly accept that I may not want to return to my memories for countless excuses, but one of them is that I don’t recognize the city anymore.
This is how I felt when I went to Dhaka a quarter century ago! I have since delayed returning. They say I would not recognize any streets and locals and, heartbreakingly, may not even understand the language, my mother tongue! These are the results of online media influences, fast imports of cultures, and the pervasive feeling of inadequacy! The meadows of my memories were once a single shade, but now diverse vegetation is interrupted by buildings made of brick and mortar—a reflection of the merciless changes that have taken place.
A strange feeling of heaviness lands on me. We are on the run! Running away from a place, a soil, an environment, a relationship—above all, running away from ourselves. Often, I dash away from what I see and observe, but my “Mon” is not confident about where I am heading. It becomes restless and unsettled. Always simmering to bring up the sentiment that I am moving towards the horizon—the closer I get, the further everything seems.
I’ve been trekking to better myself, prove my worth, and uplift others. But fell into a chronically fatigued shape. Now I want to take a furlough and lie down on the grass with only the open sky as my companion. The road ahead, which I can visualize, appears long without a hint of an end. My pause may provide fuel to renew, nourish the dream, and hope to settle in my abode. A solace may also show up without a crescendo if I am fortunate on this expedition, and that is, along with others, I have been adequate all along. This is a state of “lagom.” We made our “Mon” malnourished by ignoring the right amount of bliss to plant roots.
Lagom is a Swedish and Norwegian word that means “just the right amount.”
Mon (a Bengali word for heart).