How wonderful it is to watch your child grow up in the place you call home.

It’s a pleasure not afforded to everyone, including yours truly. Many of us are drifting further and further away from the place we grew up in. Where we learned to walk, to laugh, where we felt safe.

Where we first became brave enough to slip out of our parents’ protective embrace and venture into the world.

The place you grow up in is as much a part of your childhood as your friends, or your first bicycle. It knows secrets about yourself that you speak to no one about. It is privy to your deepest desires, your most insane thoughts.

And one day, some of us leave that old friend to seek out lives of our own. One day, we transform from residents to visitors. Building our lives far away from the place that reserves a soft spot in our hearts, returning, occasionally, to notice how much things have changed.

For those who are loyal enough to stay, this place grants a magical gift. The chance to live your childhood once again through your child.

I haven’t been lucky enough to earn this gift, but my hometown has sprinkled some leftover magic in my life. Just enough fizz to ensure that my little boy loves coming here.

We return every year, sometimes within a span of a few months, to spend time in this haven I grew up in. And it is safe to say that Malbazar is my son’s favorite place in the world.

Perhaps it is the recess from studies, from school, from homework that attracts him. Maybe it is the many friends, acquaintances, relatives, and cousins. Perhaps it is the food. Pappu’s Momos. Chicken popcorn at the now closed (sadly) Chick Blast. Anandamela’s famous Langcha and rosomalai.

Or perhaps, there’s something deeper that tugs at his heart.

Can a place have a soul?

I have seen Malbazar change in front of my eyes, yet she remains the same as well. Layers of bricks and concrete have eaten into the shade of green, but my hometown has retained its warmth.

Which is why I feel at ease as soon as I enter her cozy embrace. You can be away for months, years even, but the place you grew up in will never forget you.

It appears that my love for this place, this abode at the foothills of the Himalayas, has been passed on to the next generation as well. Our souls are intertwined, people and places turned to one.

Every time we come back here, I find that my son has grown up a little more. And I find contentment in knowing that some of his growing up has happened in my hometown.

My childhood has brushed against his formative years. We have breathed in the same air, walked on the same grounds. We have crossed the same rivers and watched the sunset from the same bend in the road.

I have walked with him through the lanes that witnessed me and my friends running around. We kicked a ball in the field where I learned to play the beautiful game. We often sit by the riverside where his late grandfather’s ashes lie scattered.

He has walked across the old rail tracks that have seen his father grow up. Where I used to sit with friends after football practice and fool around. Where many secrets were shared and myths were busted.

And somehow that isn't too bad either.

I haven't been lucky enough to see my child grow up in the place I call home. But I have seen him grow up in front of my eyes. From carrying him on my shoulders, to watching his little fingers wrapped around mine, I have traced back my childhood in him.

And I have seen him fall in love with the little abode at the foothills of the Himalayas, the place I call home.

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