What I really wanted to write

i went to subir dutta laboratory, then walked along lenin sarani to sealdah, looked in wistfully at all the old houses that now have squatters in them, starting from lawrence d souza home. there was a tiny tiny kid crawling on the street, lawrence d souza r adjoining barir shamne anekta khola jayga, an old man played football with three young ones. ratey jokhon phirchhilam, past the book fair that was shutting shop, there was the jilipi man counting up sales, and another cooking for the group, another washing up utensils. i wanted to sit around them. tokhon mone holo nothing would give me as much peace as sitting around them and listening to what they spoke. and there was this kid, he mans the ghugni stall, he was being sarcastic at his mother: sharadin dokaner shamne dariye thako, tarpor dekhbo. koto hajar hajar taka sales hochhe, and i wondered that he caled it dokan. for him, it was. and then, well, that he would move on to the next fair. did i wish i also went from place to place, that home was where i hung my hat?