Srikakulam. Funny name. Always elicits laughs. Unpronounceable. Except for those born there. Like me.
Forgettable really. I remember grandma’s searing mango pickle in boiling June.
The memory lives on my tongue.
New Delhi. Also blazing. 44-degree summers. Sensible to search for any scrap of shade. Except for those too young to care. Like me.
Mid-afternoons in school grounds. On the volleyball court, living fully in the moment.
The heat still singes my skin.
Singapore. Encased in a humidity bubble. Difficult to breathe. Except for those who get used to it. Like me.
Never meant to stay this long. So many plans to move on. Yet, 17 years later, still here. Probably will always be.
Some places sink their roots into you.
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