Downtown Manhattan feels like Sylhet, Bangladesh to me.

The crowded streets, buildings towering high, mess of traffic, street stalls with trinkets and food, and lingering smell of piss.

I only remember Bangladesh from the three summers I spent. If I had to count, I’d say it totals a full 8 months, which isn’t a lot when you consider that I’ve been around for 23 years.

Those summers were filled with scorching heat, a constant barrage of family, so much curry, and a little bit of cow poo. You would think it’s nothing at all like the iron titan of a city I live in.

Still, I’m constantly reminded of the old country. Every time it rains the smell of water against topsoil reminds me of a life I only glimpsed. I simple life, albeit harsher one. I miss it. If only because it temporarily removes me from the constant weight on my shoulders.