I felt the urge to write this piece when I visited my birthplace last month. We were driving back to Delhi from Kolkata after celebrating the Durga Puja, the festival closest to the heart of every Bengali. As we were racing down the Durgapur Expressway, glistening like the back of a Cobra in the midday sun, my husband suggested that we make a small detour.

I was thrilled at the idea. Have been born and brought up in the Steel City of Durgapur. So, it is the place dearest to me, the place where I spent my carefree childhood days, with my parents, both of whom I have lost now.

Witnessing the city's metamorphosis all around, emotions welled within me as we searched for our house using Google Maps. After moving back and forth a few times, we found it – right there, as I had visualized it in my memory so many times over the years.

The driveway is covered with soft fluffy yellow paradise flowers, lovingly called Radhachura in West Bengal. The two towering trees on either side are the same, welcoming anyone walking down the gravel path. Gently alighting from the car, we enter the garden. Flooded with memories, my steps slow down as I knock on the door.

A lady holds the door open – to the house of my childhood and adolescence. Controlling my emotions, I share the purpose of our visit. Within seconds, she ushers us in with a warm smile.

The next hour flies past – I am busy narrating stories to my daughters. The stories that have withstood the test of time. They listen, enraptured, as my husband continues to capture the place in his lenses.

Soaking in the sunbathed garden, the flowers and their heady fragrance, I thank the lady for her hospitality.

It is only when I return to the car and reminisce about the time spent in the house about three decades back, that I feel how much life has changed for me.

Moving away from the small township, I spent a brief stint in Kolkata and then moved on to the country’s capital city. A long journey indeed.

As I look back, I introspect, was it all worth it?

Having learnt the ways of the world over the years, as a survival mechanism, I feel tempted to do a cost-benefit analysis.

By the blessings of the Almighty, I have gained a lot– married the man I loved and have been blessed with two loving daughters. On the professional front, I have managed to carve out a fulfilling career for myself and currently enjoying a comfortable lifestyle.

Over the years have travelled to many exotic places, made some amazing friends and gathered countless precious memories; some sweet, some sour. Yes, it has not been easy always. I have had my share of downs and falls.

So, as I recap my journey thus far, I can’t help but agree with Bill Gates who once said, “Life is not fair, get used to it”

Yes, that is what I have done as part of my evolution – got used to losing touch with many dear friends as we changed cities. Got used to fading memories of my school teachers who laid the foundation of my life. Got used to celebrating special days and festivals without touching the feet of elders as we shaped our nuclear family. And, finally, got used to not having my parents around me, here, there, nowhere.

Painful, but true – that’s how I have designed my life.

And now, as I watch my daughters readying to fly out of the nest, that I built so lovingly over the years, I know they are on the threshold of treading down the same path.

 I know the countdown has begun; I want to hold on to them, spend more time with them and share our laughter and tears.

I want to tell them that I wanted to watch them take the first few steps but chose to go to work instead to buy them branded shoes.

I want to tell them I wanted to listen to their babble the whole day long but chose to meet my deadlines instead to buy story books they can read.

I want to tell them I wanted to sing them lullabies and bedtime stories but chose to attend overseas client calls to buy them expensive sound systems.

But I keep searching for words….to tell them I forgot to apply the brakes.

“Zindagi ke safar mein, guzar jate hain jo makam; who phir nahi atey, who phir nahi atey…”

The mellifluous voice of my all-time favourite Kishore Kumar fills the car.

Turning around, I look at my young ones through a teary mist and silently resolve.

To slow down, stop, and watch the flower blooming just for me….