Duliajan will always hold a piece of my soul. I remember the many rainy days—how I would watch from the window, mesmerized by the gulmohar and queen’s crape-myrtle blooms. Splashes of yellow, violet, and enchanting mauve shimmered against a grey backdrop. How I wish I could be wrapped in that soulful beauty again.
I remember sitting beneath the vast, starlit sky, tracing constellations and counting the moments when the moon slipped behind drifting clouds. Sometimes I would see flashes of orange in the sky. Sometimes I would hear the distant bell ring. The breeze carried the fragrance of plumeria and nyctanthes. Looking back, it feels right to say that my entire childhood in that quaint little town was a gift. The people were warm and loving; the whole town felt like one large family. Home was, in every sense, a haven.
I remember the countless car rides with my parents—my head tilted against the backrest, watching the streetlights with a silly grin, or quarreling with my brother and immediately complaining to the adults. I lived those moments fully, without knowing how precious they were. Today, when I look back, I’m simply grateful I was there.
And somewhere in its quiet corners, I hope Duliajan remembers me too.
PS: This is dedicated to someone who inspired me to cherish the good in life - Anita Aunty!
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