Dear Kolkata,

I probably shouldn't be writing you this letter, but I want you to know that I find myself thinking of you when I'm lonely.

It's Spring. The days are sunnier now and I think of how I could have been curled up on my parents' bed for an afternoon nap, feeling my mother pull a chaadar over my sleeping body to protect me from the cold breeze that she feels.

You know me. You know that my idea of a healthy diet, is squeezing the excess sugar syrup out of a roshogolla instead of making myself a salad. Your lines of Lala ka dukhaans (stores) that Mama shops at before bringing home bags of groceries is my monthly Christmas experience. But, my life is different now... I know if there is a jar of Nutella in the white plastic packet because I put it there. It isn't as much of a surprise.

Have I told you that I also pick up laundry detergent for myself now? You would be proud... perhaps not, because I don't depend on you as much anymore. If it makes you feel better, I think of our song, Washing Powder Nirma, and instantly doubt my current soap delivering doodh ki safedi (as white as milk) to my clothes.

Without you, nights seem longer and tougher to get through. In the silence, I listen for your voice- the noisy, unnecessary, and constant honking of yellow Ambassador taxis. During finals week, I pretend like the Starbucks coffee in my cup is really chai from "Balwant Singh Eating House" and that the beeping of the Keurig is really the sound of my car reversing in an attempt to fit into a congested parking space in front of the dhaba. I imagine that the Ritz biscuits I munch on are mini-samosas left over in the fridge ordered for some Sita/Gita Aunty when she came to visit Dadi (grandmother).

I remember how easy it was living with you. How rules were little more than suggestions.

I visit New York City over breaks, marvel at how often a Starbucks shop appears on every corner, and smile to myself because I know one of my friends is buying a lighter and Classic Mild cigarettes from one of the hundred paan shops littered like Starbucks at that very moment.

I walk to my classes and breathe in your scent- rose-perfumed incense sticks in every alternate window- and feel relief at not seeing red-blood paan (betel leaf with areca nut and tobacco) stains on the buildings. When I'm driving around with my friends, my heart skips a beat whenever the car does not slow down at an intersection and a part of me is annoyed that a foreign city makes me feel safer than you do. I catch myself moments before I cross the road where I'm not supposed to and stroll to a zebra crossing, wasting minutes for the traffic light to allow me to walk across the street, and feel frustrated that you did not teach me better.

I count the days till I can see the familiar Bengali letter decals on the airport ceilings and greet my parents and brother at Gate 4, bundled up in sweaters and shawls, responding to your December cold, while I relay stories of -25C winters in a half-sleeve t-shirt with no jacket.

After two weeks in your tight, warm bear hug and I start to feel suffocated. I want out. I remember why I left you and why you make me so angry. Sometimes I feel like you hold me back, that you clip my wings. One minute we're soaring in the warm air and in the next, you're injured, dragging me down with you, when you know I'm terrified of heights.

When I see you, I remember how much I adore you and that there might be a well-worn space in my heart for your charm. But, I know must always leave you and I think I'm starting to make my peace with that.

Love,

Rhea.