I will be leaving this city soon. Calcutta has fallen out of love with me and suddenly I don't mind that too much. I have already refused to let my nostalgia create a nonexistent country. I have created something nonexistent of this city while I was still here. In a few months I will be cold and white and lonely. I have promised this city that I won't miss it then, not the sea hanging in the air, not the heat that sticks between the armpits because of it. Maybe when I come back I will love it more. Maybe I won't want to throw myself in front of the running train every time I go on the metro. I can't really explain what it is to make a lover of a city. But I know I will come back. I can't imagine dying anywhere else. I love Calcutta so much I want my body to rot here. I love Calcutta so much I want it to blow up in a smoke, to never have existed, except in a dream.
