8 years on, I'm back in Poona. I have mixed reactions to the cityscape as it stands today. So much has changed, so much remains just the same. And then, the people. Malls and flyovers donot change the nature of those that they serve. That is a reassuring feeling.
I'd be waiting for its rains; its sheer beauty in those two or three months.
All those years back, all of this — the househunt, the running around, the money managing, the micro-detailing of stuff to set up a new home — was silently carried out by my mother. Six years since she passed away, I am neck deep in that process again. It feels calmer. There's a certain confidence working somehow, and I cannot seem to fathom it.
I'll probably set up home on top of a hill, rather distant from the bustle of the city. It's a choice I would make because above all things, I want a little peace. Possibly, just to listen to my own self thinking. I almost never had any time for that in the past few years. 
There isn't even any music on me, so to speak: whatever I have on the phone is all. And I have not been inclined to listen to much music since I moved. I am just reading: comfort childhood reads, actually. Corbett, Conan Doyle, a collection of Bangla ghost stories that I bought from the Book Fair this time.
Maybe you don't need those outward expressions to feel the music of your soul. I did my bit, and I will do more. I do know that. And that's a calm that is not easily stirred. I have stuff to do.