Thirteen houses. Eight colonies. Seven cities.

Learning and unlearning addresses were an integral part of my childhood. Friendships were brief. Familiarity with neighbourhoods was ephemeral. And no local dish became a staple. Only the thud of cardboard boxes and the ripping sound of packaging tape were a constant.

Despite this, I called Dehradun, where I spent four years as a school-going teenager, my home. It had a rustic charm, with deodar-covered hills, orchards, and a scent of flowers. Summers were pleasant — hot afternoons were often followed by gentle showers. While monsoons brought charcoal-edged clouds and sudden rains, they turned the surroundings lush green. And winters covered the hills with a blanket of snow.

On most days, after school, my friends and I would cycle to a nearby forest. We would then walk through tall trees and thick grass to reach a causeway, where we spent hours talking — mobile phones and the Internet were yet to enter our lives. I usually returned home after sunset, gazing at the distant lights of........

© Indian Express