When I was a child, I would often romanticise the bylanes of old Jodhpur, spinning tales of what went inside the city. I would love glimpsing miniature shuttered windows and doors studding the blue walls, imagining a cosy, cluttered world beyond, where you never felt alone, where the city was your family, it's streets your veins, where love was waiting for you on the roof next door. Life happened, I grew up, my rose-tinted spectacles shattering into a million pieces. In the last few years, whenever I go there, what had appeared cosily cluttered seemed suffocating and imprisoning. I see instead wistful faces staring out from the windows and balconies and roofs, hoping of escape from the confines of the old and out into the new. The rank squalor of the streets has robbed them of their earlier doll-house charm. And then, seeing a triptych of windows such as this suddenly takes me back to the uncynical Priyanka that I once was. I see the sheaves of sun-bleached paper stuffing a window, the indigo-blue accentuating the warm, weathered tones of the wood. I pause there for a while, wondering when the window would open, the house awakening from slumber - and a face would pop out, shining with welcome and innocent curiosity, asking me for tea and kachoris and an invitation to climb up a narrow flight of stairs up to the roof to see the sky and the fort beyond, dreams lying in reach. But the window stayed shut and no one emerged, after all. But that tiny sliver of the many dreams that I used to collect and store away in my treasure-box of thoughts had resurrected itself, taking me back to a time and age that I had long forgotten.