Nostalgia

There is something about living in the same place for a long, long time. The bond between a man, his house, his surroundings and the earth he sets foot on every day is beyond description. In solitude he sees the same landscapes, with mild changes now and then. The odours in the air he breathes, he recognizes, and the nostalgia sets in, bringing with it pictures of childhood. He can still hear the noise of children playing in the neighborhood, the shouting, the howling and laughter that is free of reservations; and it sounds like sweet music. The people of his childhood have now turned old and weary, yet they smile with same affection while they walk along the same road, time and again. He sees the sun rise and sun set at the very same place, and the mysterious patterns of clouds it leaves behind as it returns homeward. These drawings of the sun appear sometimes, while the sky remains clear at other times. This is a constant enigma he faces. He often remembers his kite flying in the clear sky and the pains he took making one during his vacations. Nothing can ever replace the satisfaction of being part of that festivity. He recounts how the coming of the rains changes the whole surroundings of his place, how each of the trees and plants turn green and how each drop of rain sounds and how it tunes itself with the smell of mother earth.

But now, he finds people changing their homes like changing clothes, without thought and with perfect ease. The reason they give is, more space, more money, better views, better facilities, better job and the list goes on. But he wonders whether anyone thinks about what they'll miss.

Can this person ever leave this place of his heart, for whatever reason?