Lately, I find myself thinking back to my childhood—revisiting the past with a heart full of nostalgia, retracing the steps of a boy who once ran through the quiet lanes of Bandra. I remember those early mornings, the world bathed in golden sunlight, the short shrubs lined with tiny yellow flowers, and the delicate butterflies that flitted about, as if they were playing a game only they understood. There were four of us, my little gang of friends, always running, always laughing, revelling in the boundless joy that childhood so effortlessly bestows.

Perhaps I see it all now through rose-tinted glasses. Perhaps memory is kinder than reality was. But these moments are etched so deeply in my subconscious that they come back to me in vivid detail—the sunlight filtering through the trees, the movement of the butterflies, the thrill of being young and free.

Some memories stand out more than others. I can still see myself sitting in a classroom at St. Theresa’s High School. I don’t even remember which standard I was in, but I distinctly recall gazing out of the window and seeing the church steeples in the distance. A quiet moment of peace, a scene so simple yet so deeply comforting. Then there was the time I sat on my friend Virginia’s balcony, lost in thought, filled with anticipation for the day ahead—our trip to the beach. The sheer joy of that moment, the excitement of what was to come, is still so tangible in my mind.

And then there was my friend Sarvar’s house. He lived on the fifth floor, which, to me, felt like an extraordinary height. Having lived on the first floor all my life then, standing on his balcony and gazing out was an experience in itself. From there, I could see the TV tower at Worli, standing tall in the distance. In those days, Bandra had no high-rises, so the view was uninterrupted, stretching all the way to Worli. I can’t imagine that happening now—for any child to stand on a fifth-floor balcony and see as far as I did. The world has changed.

But then, doesn’t every generation say this? Doesn’t every generation look back with nostalgia, tinged with a quiet ache for what was? I understand now why memory is so important. It anchors us, reminds us of who we were, where we came from, and what once brought us joy.

Perhaps these thoughts have surfaced because my cousin sister has come to stay in Santa Cruz after a long time. She is the only member of my extended family whom I am still close to. I have lost so many over the years, and with her presence, old memories resurface, unbidden yet welcome. Every time I step out of my house, walking with the children through roads now choked with traffic, pollution, and relentless construction, I think back to a time when the sunlight touched the ground unfiltered, when the air was clean, when the fog in the mornings was not the result of smog but of nature’s own quiet magic—warm days, cool mornings, and nights filled with nothing but stillness.

I know I will never get those days back. Life moves on, things change, people leave. But memories remain. And in them, for a brief, beautiful moment, I can return to the lanes of my childhood, where the yellow butterflies still dance in the morning light.