There are places that we visit, there are places that we live in, there are also places that we want to spend our last days in, but this place—the city of by lanes—wasn’t one of them. I walked through those narrow lanes that stretched endlessly like a zig zag puzzle. Each lane lead to the main streets where the sun exposed the houses, buildings, and shops unlike the lanes themselves that were hidden from the light and dust of the city. I reached the exit of one such lane that opened up to the ghat. The ghat was lined on the right with old red brick buildings that had lost their rich hues to time but kept their vibrance alive. The lower part of the buildings proudly wore tastelessly spray-painted pictures of gods, animals, and abstract shapes. On the left was the river that danced under the foggy morning sky. I was there to watch the sun rise behind the horizon. I took a little ferry boat to reach the centre of the river. They said that it is the best spot to catch the sun climb up from under the waters. Why did it seem like I had known it all along? Why did it feel like it was just another day for me in the city when actually it was my first ever visit to the place? Why was I feeling one with the crowds? Why did I feel welcome in one of the strangest places in the country? I realised that may be, I belonged here but from another time. This was perhaps a city that I wasn’t visiting but a city that I was coming back home to.