Memory is unpredictable . One never really knows what we will remember and what we will forget. Which is why nostalgia arrives in unpredictable waves, highlighting something and skimming over others. Recently, I have found myself thinking of how memory works, as I was assailed by nostalgia over a trip to Varanasi, a city I prefer to think of, as Kashi. The nostalgia hit right as we landed at Varanasi airport. The last time I was here, it was 1988, I was 13 years old, the airport was brand new… regular flights hadn’t started yet (I think) … flights landed about once a week, and for the rest of the time, everything was open to those of us who lived in the airport quarters nearby. There were fields everywhere, vast expanses of green… I have vague memories of corn and sugarcane… and being overwhelmed by the vastness of the fields (this was the first time I was in such close proximity to them), and the warm hospitality of complete strangers who lived and worked amidst these fields. I h...
A lone fort stood over a hill, on an island just off the creek. The island was a small one, with a fishing village at the foot of the hill, and a fort atop it. From what we could see, from across the creek, there was nothing much to be seen. The fort appeared to be in ruins, as were most of the other forts we had seen in the area. Yet, a friend had assured me that I would like the place, and it was all thanks to him that we driving in the relentless heat towards Korlai Fort in Alibag.