Bhaskar Majumder 1 The attic of Daipayan’s ancestral home in North Kolkata smelled of old books, mothballs, and the faint aroma of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco — a scent that clung to the wooden trunks and rusted almirahs like a memory too stubborn to leave. Dust motes danced in the slanting beam of afternoon light that filtered through a broken ventilator, casting long shadows on the faded floor mats. He wasn’t supposed to be here — just a short trip home for his cousin’s wedding — but the pull of nostalgia had dragged him up the creaky stairs to explore…