“There is a space between man’s imagination and man’s attainment that may only be traversed by his longing.”
Everyday before I drifted off to sleep, in the waking hours as I moved into consciousness, rumbling along in a rickshaw in dusty Dhaka and often bored at office meetings, my thoughts would be on this this reunion and return to Siriniwasa.
The need to see the house had become a permanent gnawing ache, a longing, an avatar that travelled with me from the time I heard it had been restored. In my minds eye every door of the house opened on to a memory – voices, faces, laughter, tears, friends and foes, all floated by – a kaleidoscope that I never tired of. When I traversed it in my dreams, stuck in Dhaka, the nights more than paid for my hopeless longing in the…
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