Home. Now and forever.

She lies sprawled in the shadow of the Sahyadris. Around two hundred kilometers south of that ugly megapolis, and infinitely cooler, quieter and more relaxed.

She is growing with time, and that is inevitable. She is not aging as well as she might, and that is sad.

She is sarcastic, she is biting.

She is getting colder by the day. There will be biting winds, and there will be chilly nights. Warm cozy blankets, and the smell of moth balls as they're removed from the trunks. A nip in the air, and sweaters on morning walks. Involuntary shivers on the bike, and speedometers frosted over with dew in the mornings.

She is getting more crowded with time. The traffic is well nigh unbearable. Piled up vehicles, and ugly, garish malls. But the lanes are still leafy, and they still sleep in the still of the afternoon. Dappled sunlight still filters through in the quiet that three p.m. produces.

She still has tapris that make wonderful chai, and she still has tapris that make vada pavs with just the right amount of chili, garlic and coriander. The red dry chutney, and the fried chillies coated with salt.

She still has my family, and she still has some of my friends. She still has my Gokhale. It'll be three years soon, since she and I have temporarily parted ways, and she waits patiently for my return. As she does for the return of every son who left her reluctantly.

She, the Queen of the Deccan, will be visited by one of her own over the coming weekend.

Correction: two of her own. And both of us can't wait.

Pune!