Trisha Ghosal in Manchester
There’s a kind of melancholy that only the Kolkata Maidan can cure.
The soft slush of dew under your shoes on a December morning. The first crack of bat on ball echoing across fog-laced fields. The unmistakable scent of burning leaves somewhere in the distance. Little kids in oversized jerseys chasing dreams on patches of grass barely big enough for boundaries. And a younger version of me, cross-legged under a gulmohar tree with a packet of chola badaam (roasted groundnuts and…
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