<p>In 1966, when I was just four years old, my grandmother and I went to my aunt’s house in Sankeshwar, Belgavi. My aunt lives in ‘Nadi Galli.’ Close to the river belt, her house stood across from a magnificent residence with a sprawling garden. The vivid memories of those days remain etched in my mind to this day, painted with vibrant shades of greenery.</p>.<p>Mohan, a 7-8-year-old boy who lived in that grand house, took me eagerly by the hand and led me to his garden, offering me delicious fruits. His kindness and warmth left an indelible mark on my heart. To my joy, this memorable visit was followed by many more, as my mother planned a visit from Hubbali to Sankeshwar every six months to visit her sister.</p>.<p>However, in 1970, my aunt moved out of Nadi Galli to an area near the bus stand, severing contact with Mohan, and we lost touch.</p>.<p>Last year, we had been to Karad, Maharashtra, to visit my brother. On our return journey with my spouse and daughter, a wave of nostalgia engulfed me. The memories of Nadi Galli and the cherished moments spent with Mohan flooded me with such force that I compelled our driver to take us to Sankeshwar.</p>.<p>An astonishing 53 years later, despite the town’s transformation, a familiar ambiance still lingered. And with some help, I was able to find Mohan’s house. His son came to meet us, curious and anxious about the stranger inquiring about his father. I poured my heart out, recounting the love and warmth his father had shown me during my childhood.</p>.<p>I stood in the very place where our beautiful friendship had blossomed. Tears welled up in Mohan’s son’s eyes as he gently informed me of his father’s passing away two decades ago.</p>.<p>Despite the sorrowful news, a strong urge compelled me to step inside their house. Memories flooded back as I beheld the old residence where my aunt had lived and where the tapestry of my childhood memories was woven. The now deserted and dilapidated house served as a poignant reminder of the passage of time.</p>.<p>Mohan’s elderly mother, now in her nineties, emerged before us. When my wife spoke to her in Marathi and mentioned that her mother had lived here fifty-three years ago, the old lady’s eyes sparkled with recognition, and she embraced my wife with tears in her eyes. Overwhelmed by emotions, she mirrored the sentiments residing within our hearts.</p>.<p>Within thirty minutes, an emotionally charged scene unfolded before us. Mohan’s son shared memories of his late father; his wife mourned the loss of her beloved husband; and the elderly mother, with a heavy heart, reminisced about her son, who had departed long ago.</p>.<p>Leaving Sankeshwar that day, my heart was heavy with cherished memories. A renewed appreciation for the power of human connections, which can transcend time and distance, filled my heart.</p>
<p>In 1966, when I was just four years old, my grandmother and I went to my aunt’s house in Sankeshwar, Belgavi. My aunt lives in ‘Nadi Galli.’ Close to the river belt, her house stood across from a magnificent residence with a sprawling garden. The vivid memories of those days remain etched in my mind to this day, painted with vibrant shades of greenery.</p>.<p>Mohan, a 7-8-year-old boy who lived in that grand house, took me eagerly by the hand and led me to his garden, offering me delicious fruits. His kindness and warmth left an indelible mark on my heart. To my joy, this memorable visit was followed by many more, as my mother planned a visit from Hubbali to Sankeshwar every six months to visit her sister.</p>.<p>However, in 1970, my aunt moved out of Nadi Galli to an area near the bus stand, severing contact with Mohan, and we lost touch.</p>.<p>Last year, we had been to Karad, Maharashtra, to visit my brother. On our return journey with my spouse and daughter, a wave of nostalgia engulfed me. The memories of Nadi Galli and the cherished moments spent with Mohan flooded me with such force that I compelled our driver to take us to Sankeshwar.</p>.<p>An astonishing 53 years later, despite the town’s transformation, a familiar ambiance still lingered. And with some help, I was able to find Mohan’s house. His son came to meet us, curious and anxious about the stranger inquiring about his father. I poured my heart out, recounting the love and warmth his father had shown me during my childhood.</p>.<p>I stood in the very place where our beautiful friendship had blossomed. Tears welled up in Mohan’s son’s eyes as he gently informed me of his father’s passing away two decades ago.</p>.<p>Despite the sorrowful news, a strong urge compelled me to step inside their house. Memories flooded back as I beheld the old residence where my aunt had lived and where the tapestry of my childhood memories was woven. The now deserted and dilapidated house served as a poignant reminder of the passage of time.</p>.<p>Mohan’s elderly mother, now in her nineties, emerged before us. When my wife spoke to her in Marathi and mentioned that her mother had lived here fifty-three years ago, the old lady’s eyes sparkled with recognition, and she embraced my wife with tears in her eyes. Overwhelmed by emotions, she mirrored the sentiments residing within our hearts.</p>.<p>Within thirty minutes, an emotionally charged scene unfolded before us. Mohan’s son shared memories of his late father; his wife mourned the loss of her beloved husband; and the elderly mother, with a heavy heart, reminisced about her son, who had departed long ago.</p>.<p>Leaving Sankeshwar that day, my heart was heavy with cherished memories. A renewed appreciation for the power of human connections, which can transcend time and distance, filled my heart.</p>