What does it mean to visit your country of birth after thirty-five years? First, curiosity. What does it look like now?

Of course, every place you visit has changed; most places have changed radically. The roads are better, the buildings taller, there are new flyovers and subways.

Admittedly the roads are not cleaner, the buildings defy both taste and norms, and there are stories of subway accidents and flyover crashes. No matter. The changes are signs of some vibrancy, an undeniable groping for a better life, a matter of interest and curiosity. Second, empathy. Life in general is far harder in Kolkata or Konnagar than in Washington.

Life in the US is impersonal, but organised and convenient. Banking or travelling, paying bills or renovating your home does not means waiting, standing in line, pleasing petty bosses or greasing greedy palms.

So you come and see friends, colleagues and relatives, people no worse than you, suffering slings and arrows that you have long buried in the past; it evokes a strange mixture of concern and empathy. And yet, thirdly, there is a curious sense of comfort.

The city, despite all the changes, feels like a familiar groove, where you can once again breathe in a familiar air, polluted and lung-darkening to be sure, but also warm, friendly, heartlifting.

You take a turn, the locale seems vaguely familiar, you look for the old cafe´, before you realise you are mistaken, you are in effect lost, and yet you don’t feel uncomfortable, for you feel somehow in accustomed terrain, like an old shoe or tea in a cracked but cherished cup.

Then there is the reckoning, with wreckage and ruination. Two of the houses I had lived in Kolkata exist, one inhabited and the other deserted, but both look worse than ruined. They appear like ghost houses. Two others have been demolished mercilessly, but replaced by giant ill-designed structures that seem fit habitat only for wounded creatures.

I am told those are high-priced apartment buildings, but to me they spell an unkind shelter for exhausted spirits. Contrasting with those ravages is the pleasure of encountering what hasn’t changed. After savouring haute cuisine in fifty countries, I still exult in what you can find street vendors purvey on Mumbai streets and tiny restaurants serve on Kolkata’s winding lanes.

The joy of rediscovering what I had enjoyed and loved as a callow youth in immeasurable. Music is now eminently portable, yet it is I have to come to India to realise what vast treasures remain beyond my reach without a visit to my pristine land.

But all this does not come anywhere near the heart of the matter. The biggest reason you come back is because of the people. People you know, people you have known and people you expect to know. The faces of my friends are no longer wrinkle-free, some move slowly and some don’t move at all.

Their minds sometimes wander, their memories falter, their interests diverge from mine, but they are still my friends. I am glad they smile as they receive me, and accept my angularities as readily as they did earlier. I value their friendship and cherish their affection.

Not just my friends. Why are even the strangers, in this land from which I am now decidedly estranged, so kind, helpful and generous? Why do their words evince such warmth when I ask a question or need some help? Why do they walk hundreds of yards to show me the turn I must take to reach some obscure destination, which has significance only for a man in exile?

What is that ineffable link that connects me to this land, these people, this whole culture and will not snap?

That is what I feel: a man in exile, not really estranged, not even – as the official term goes – ‘expatriated,’ but just someone who has been abroad for a long time, but has now taken the time to come home.

The writer is a Washington-based international development advisor and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at mnandy@gmail.com