There’s something hauntingly beautiful about streets like this — where the walls speak of years gone by and the wind carries stories from every doorstep.
This is not just a lane. It’s a memory in motion.
Old wires crisscross the sky like tangled thoughts, uneven bricks underfoot tell tales of a thousand footsteps — each one with its own purpose, its own urgency, or lack of it.
The child you see in the image — maybe he’s someone I once was. Or someone I still am.
Lost in thought, walking with no rush, hand behind his back — that unconscious posture of curiosity and calm. He’s looking ahead, perhaps toward the red archway that guards the entrance to a busier world. But his mind might still be lingering behind, with the smells of kachori from that tiny stall, the echoes of conversations from the open balconies, or the quiet hum of fans from the shaded homes.
This street has seen more than just traffic — it’s seen weddings, farewells, processions, Diwali lights, and monsoon puddles. It’s seen silence too — like on a summer noon, when everyone’s indoors and only the hum of power lines reminds you the world is still moving.
There’s a kind of peace here that cities can never imitate. It’s raw, unscripted, and real.
And I feel lucky.
Lucky to have lived this lane, walked it without urgency, and soaked in its imperfect charm.
Because sometimes, it’s in these ordinary streets that the most extraordinary roots of our being quietly grow.
