Cities Change. But Past Comes Along Too.

She didn’t want to move.

She had set up a life she could finally call home. Colleagues-turned-friends, a job she loved, and Jugnu. There was no one who didn’t adore Jugnu. A feisty, firecracker of a dog—tapri-born, gully-bred, and big on drama. Their first meeting wasn’t exactly love-at-first-sight. One day after a gruelling brainstorming session, she along with her colleagues decided to go to the nearby tapri for chai and relaxation. During their animated conversation, she heard a low-throated growl. Brushing it off as her imagination, she continued. But then, there it was again; a little louder than the previous one. This time one of her colleagues heard it too and froze, because he was terrified of dogs.

The hunt led to a tarpaulin covered table. As the group neared, the growls grew louder. “She’s harmless. Just bark and no bite. But ferociously protective of her territory”, offered the tapri-wale Bhaiyya. He lifted the sheet and there sat Jugnu! Sizing up everyone minutely, as if deciding whether these mere humans were welcome in her zone or not. A sprightly little creature with upright ears and baring teeth. “If you want to befriend Jugnu, give her a bun. She will take an instant liking to you,” intervened Bhaiyya.

From then on, it became a ritual. She would get a bun for Jugnu every day without a miss. Jugnu also had started looking forward to these visits and would run to greet her. On days she was late, Jugnu would turn into a drama queen, avoiding eye contact and sporting a grumpy look.

And then a day came, when she was forced to move. Pune, for all its comfort, could no longer hold her life together. So, when an old colleague forwarded a job opening in Bangalore, she said yes before her heart could say no.
She packed, went to the tapri to bid Jugnu goodbye and looked back at everything she had lived, one last time.
The apartment she found was small. Big windows and the smell of paint still fresh from the last tenant. But it was close to her new office. Same kind of work—long hours, blank documents, and the pressure to make something sound effortless. Only now, she wrote for software products, not ad copies for real estate and gaming websites.
It wasn’t exciting but something to hold on to.
She kept to herself, as if on autopilot. Didn’t go out much, didn’t talk much, and didn’t try too hard to belong. It was easier that way.

Still, the past didn’t stay behind.

Sometimes it came with the smell of the first rain and frying bhajjis—reminding her of chai and newspaper-wrapped snacks on her Pune balcony.
Sometimes it came through old songs playing from nearby autos. And sometimes, it came suddenly—through a “memory” notification, showing her the sunsets, busy roads, and Jugnu.
She missed home. Not just the place—but who she used to be in it.

One evening, after a long day of drafts and deadlines, she saw a cream-colored street dog curled under the awning of the bakery she would go for breaks. Wet, shivering, but alert. A shopkeeper muttered, “She’s been around all day. Won’t go away.”
On instinct, she stepped inside, bought a bun, and knelt down.
The dog sniffed cautiously. Ignored it. Stayed. “She doesn’t eat anything except egg yolks,” he chimed in.
The next day, she was back with yolks. And the day after.
She started calling her “Yolky”—because every time someone threw her an egg, she’d eat only the egg yolk and leave the rest behind.
Soon, Yolky wasn’t alone. Two other dogs followed. A brown one who she named Potato. And the other, Zulu, who’d howl if he didn’t get attention.

No one claimed them. But they claimed her.

Every day at work, her chai breaks became a quiet ritual. She brought three bowls and filled them with water and scraps, only yolks for Yolky. The dogs waited for her now—heads tilted, tails wagging.

She still missed home. But now, she had a routine that felt a little bit like one.
Some days were still heavy. But the wagging tails helped.

One rainy evening, as the city choked under puddles and traffic, she saw an elderly woman near the bakery, holding an umbrella and trying to wave down a rickshaw. No one stopped, so typical of Bangalore autowallahs.
She left her chai and ran out with her umbrella, guiding the woman to a drier corner, calling over a driver, and even giving up her own ride so the woman could get home.
The woman looked at her with kind, curious eyes. “You remind me of someone,” she said softly, “someone who didn’t stop trying, even when life got messy.”

That evening, she thought about what the woman said.
Maybe the city was messy.
But maybe so was she.
And maybe that was okay.

The past hadn’t really followed her. It had never left.

It was still inside her—the version of herself who once believed things would be easy, and the one who now knew they wouldn’t. And somewhere between blank Word docs, egg-loving dogs, and strangers with umbrellas, she had stopped trying to erase that past.
She had simply made room for it.
She learned to carry it, not hide it.
She learned that fresh starts weren’t about forgetting, but about forgiving—especially herself.

Even after a decade, the city felt alien. She didn’t love it yet.
But now, when she walked to the bakery and the dogs ran to greet her, tails thumping on the pavement, she felt something warm rise inside her.
Not happiness. Not yet.
But the kind of peace that grows slowly.

And that was enough.